A Wartime NecessiTea
by Punmaster Extrordinaire
Summary: The time is WWII, and rationing is in effect in Great Britain. England has only one problem with that: *tea* is rationed too, and he can't get nearly enough for his definitely-not-an-addiction. What's he to do? Contains progressively more crack as he's driven mad - let the insani-tea begin! Note: can be construed as having slight US/UK/US in some chapters.
1. The Odysstea

**Hallo, all! Here's my new multi-chapter fic dealing with all the terrifying, pathetic, and vaguely entertaining things that happens when England doesn't get his tea. England will progressively get more and more OOC because, well, he goes through tea withdrawal. And his pain amuses me.**

***A Very Special Announcement from the Government* Kids, remember: Tea is a drug, a terrible, terrible drug, and unless you want to end up like poor England, then don't drink it! Especially with the white, powdery drug known on the street as "sugar."  
**

**Rated T for England's mouth and mild France. Hah, what an oxymoron! "Mild France." Pffff!  
**

**Oh, and it should be clear from the context, but this takes during Hetalia's depiction of World War II. Great Britain's going through some crazy-restrictive rationing during this time period, including tea. Two ounces a week of loose-leaf tea! And the U.K. doesn't start using the metric system until about the 70s, which is why nothing is in grams.  
**

* * *

It was early morning in England's country house. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, the birds were singing, the flying mint bunny was peacefully playing with yarn balls tugged out of England's knitting basket, and the sound of muffled expletives long preceded England's appearance in the kitchen.

If one listened closely, the words 'sodding Luftwaffe,' 'American git,' and 'bloody frog' could occasionally be distinguished, but overall the hoarse, drowsy voice was comprised more of incoherent mumbling than anything else. One got the impression that the profanity was more a sleepy, comforting litany than of any actual obscene meaning.

England trudged into the kitchen, tattered slippers on his feet and an old dressing gown wrapped around his shoulders. Eyes still mostly shut, he mechanically set a kettle on the stove and got out a china teacup and saucer. It was as ancient and sacred a ritual as any druidic ceremony, and England could do it in his sleep. This was only to the good, since he wasn't exactly awake right at that moment.

As the water heated, he leaned against the counter and stared vacantly out at the dawn, only stirring again when the kettle whistled cheerfully, startling him into slight wakefulness. After moving the kettle to a cool burner, he paused a moment in thought. Somewhere in his mind a small cog spun uselessly a moment before interlocking with another gear, and he reached over to turn off the gas before another one of his little Incidents happened.

Popping the lid off the tea-tin with a practiced twist, he reached inside to grab a few dried leaves, and, crumbling them, dropped them in the teacup. Picking up the kettle, he poured the water in as well, then added milk and stirred gently. After a minute to let it cool, he sipped gently, letting the cool, slightly bitter, delicious liquid roll—

He paused. Something was not right. He took another sip of the tea and tasted, if he had to pick a few words, watery milk.

_Huh_.

It took a while for his still half-asleep mind to try to reason this out. Why did he taste watery milk when he had clearly just made tea?

He looked down at his cup to see…not tea.

He blinked again in slow incomprehension, and turned to his tea-tin. When he peered inside, he was met with his own bemused reflection in the bottom of the tin, and not, as he expected, a large mound of dried tea leaves.

Consciousness gradually bobbing to the surface, he frowned and plodded downstairs to where he kept his bulk stores of tea. Greeted by the comforting smell that only comes from storing large quantities of tea in the same room for centuries, he relaxed a bit and opened the nearest chest.

No tea.

He checked the next.

No tea.

He checked the next, and the next, and the next, and the next…

_No tea._

And England was suddenly very awake indeed.

~o0O0o~

It wasn't until twenty minutes later, once Minty had managed to convince him to get down from the branches of the old oak in the garden (old habits die hard) that he began thinking coherently again.

Although England knew blood ran through his veins—how could he not, when every night the Luftwaffe came a-calling showed him more of it?—he was nonetheless convinced his heart pumped tea. It was no extraordinary thing to him, no thing of wonder or magic; it was just the calm truth. His body, his mind, his _empire_ ran on it, every gear and wheel turning with its astringent lubrication.

In earlier centuries it might have been woad dye or salt sea or his Navy's rum or any number of liquids, but it was tea now and had been for years. He could ignore injuries and limited food supplies without too much trouble—he had plenty of experience with such things, after so many centuries of warfare—but this? This was too much.

Ferociously petting the flying mint bunny on his lap as if doing so could make tea appear out of empty air, England shook himself out of such depressing thoughts. _No, it's _not_ too much. Even if it's important to my nation, it's little more than a habit to me personally. I can deal with this. _

His people were rationing and fighting on like the stalwart Britons they were, and he decided he would just have to make sacrifices as well. _Besides, the tea isn't an addiction, no matter what America blathers on about. No, it's just a habit, practically a hobby, really, and I just needed to slowly, carefully wean myself off the stuff so if I actually run out I won't need it any more. Ahah, not that I 'need' it now, of course; that was simply a slip of the tongue. Or thought. You can have those, right? At any rate, I'll be fine; it's not as if I drink all that much tea anyway. Just a cup every morning or so._

England nodded resolutely to himself and went to fetch his ration book. He needed to go to the market and buy some definitely-not-essential tea leaves. The ration for the average man was two ounces of tea a week, wasn't it? He did some mental calculations. _Two ounces, that's what, ten cups or if I stretch it? Divide by seven days per week, carry the…that's about one and a half cups a day. I can do that._ He swallowed dryly. _I can do that._

Precious ration book in one hand, obligatory umbrella in the other, England went to the shops.

~o0O0o~

Tea rationing was now in effect at England's home, and he needed to stick to it if he was to have enough to last through the week. His resolve was firm, his will iron, his determination as hard, as, well, a very hard thing. This made it all the more surprising when the very next evening he was yet again faced with the horrifying sight of an empty tea-tin. He stared uncomprehendingly at this for a moment before his eyes drifted to his empty tea cup on the counter and a terrible realization dawned.

Unless someone was somehow stealing the tea right out his cupboard (which was a little paranoid, but you never knew in wartime), then in the space of one day he had, without realizing it, drank his entire week's supply of tea.

Which meant he had nothing for the rest of the week.

_Oh bloody hell._

~o0O0o~

In all his years as a man and a nation, there was perhaps only one time England had ever truly, deeply fallen in love. It had been at first sip in the 1600s—when Netherlands had sold him a bag of interesting-smelling dried leaves—and he had never left his teacup's side since. Alcohol in all its permutations had been a mainstay of his diet since his people first accidentally let some produce rot and then were foolish—or brilliant—enough to drink it, but on that wonderful day three centuries ago, staring into the strange ceramic cup, he knew he had met his soul mate.

These days it was practically his religion; what else could you call such daily rituals of china and pastries? He had known many rituals and religions in his millennia of life, and in his opinion the cult of tea was undoubtedly one of his more genial, delicious, and peaceful ones. Rather than splinter his people into sects, teatime somehow managed to unite his country under the imperative common to all mankind to stop working whenever possible, with the added benefit of a delightful afternoon snack. It also had the benefit that it was surprisingly difficult to declare religious war under the soothing influence of a good cuppa and a biscuit, and he knew from rueful experience that virgin's blood took far more work to get out of white robes than tea stains did out of sweater vests.

On more than one occasion he and other like-minded individuals had passionately and eloquently argued that if they were to add Wales's red dragon on top the rest of the Union Jack, they might as well go the whole nine yards and have it holding a pint in one paw and a teacup in the other. United under this cause, England and his colleagues would make plans to storm Parliament and demand tea be put in its rightful place at the King's right hand and a declaration of a national holiday in its honor. Yet despite wild and unanimous support these ideas never really got off the ground since it was usually at this point that the pub closed.

At any rate, three hundred years of constant companionship could do strange things to a country, he knew, once that support was suddenly torn away. _Just look at what happened when Germany stopped France's shipments of hair products. He knew full well what he was doing to France with that, and he did it anyway, the bastard. _Pity and sympathy was not an emotion England often felt in association with France, but that was one of the few times. England did not know what would correspondingly happen to _him_ without his daily cup of tea, and wartime was not exactly the best time to reveal new weaknesses for his enemies to exploit.

It was a matter of military necessity, then: he needed to get some more tea. _Surely there are some other ways to get it than the weekly ration? Some way to augment my supply?_

So he traded with neighbors, in return for their tea rations buying their children milk…and meat, and butter, and biscuits, and eggs, and fruit, and sweets, and cheese, and clothing…As his stomach rumbled for the nth time that day, he reasoned that as a nigh-immortal national personification it wasn't as if he _needed_ food. _Not like I nee- er, want tea._ And the happiness on their little faces was reward enough, really, and the relief in their parent's eyes. The tea had nothing to do with it, truly. Nothing at all. And if someone was silly enough to be fooled into thinking so by the way he nearly ran home to have a cup or five after these transactions, well then, they were just being ridiculous.

Yet before his long his ration book for each week began to look as empty as his tea-tin, and he turned to the black market. _Is it illegal if the laws you're breaking are a part of you? _he mused as he did so, barely feeling guilty at all at this point. In those dark corners and glancing eyes he couldn't help but be reminded of his old days as a criminal and pirate, and those who he dealt with couldn't help but be unnerved by the fresh-faced young man who demanded tea with an inexplicably nostalgic smile.

England managed well enough for a while, but he would not call this new development in his life comfortable by any means. The nerve-wracking nature of subsistence tea-drinking reminded him uncomfortably of the old days, when he lived only on hand-to-mouth hunting and gathering.

During meetings with his Prime Minister, instead of listening to how he as a nation was to survive the onslaught of the Axis he found himself staring at the man's steaming teacup, his thoughts not dutifully on looking under the figurative couch cushions for extra change but rather on how to best distract his boss and steal the liquid gold he so casually held before him.

Over paperwork in the evenings, instead of placing defenses and plotting troop movements, he unconsciously focused on the second hand ticking on his watch. Slowly, so slowly it ticked around and around, and England's knee juddered up and down, fingers tapping impatiently on the table, eyes darting from the kitchen door to the clock face and back as he waited until the time he would allow himself to have a tiny spoonful of tea.

_It's all rather pathetic,_ England reflected. _Here I am, practically ready to whore myself out for a cuppa. Actually…_he paused to consider that idea, before quickly shaking it away. It was absolutely immoral and contemptible that he was even _considering_ it, not to say disgusting. Besides, it wasn't as if anyone had any tea to pay him in anyway.

Even with all his trading, illegal acts against his own government, and surreptitious calling-in of favors, his tea was running low. Living hand-to-teacup-to-mouth was not enough, it seemed.

_What other options_ _have I? Well…there's always _them_. My dear, darling allies. Why do I have the feeling this is going to go wrong?_

Little did he know it would not even be _nearly_ as easy as he thought.

* * *

**It's Hetalia, of course it'll go wrong! Who do you think he'll go to first?**

**I like how some of his paranoia is already starting to show ^^**

**And no, I won't tell you what happened with France and the hair product famine. **

**Yet. We'll see.**


	2. For Whom the Tea Bowls

**AND SO ENGLAND'S ODYSS-TEA BEGINS, A TALE OF EPIC PROPORTIONS.  
**

**Oniongrass: **Yes, he's *already* considering whoring himself out for drugs. What have I done? Special Relationship or not, I don't think I'm allowed to do this to the poor guy ^.^

**Lilyflower1987: **This is gonna be sooo much fun~! I can't wait until we get into the *really* crazy parts! And I never told you how the story ends, did I? ;D

**yoong: **Yes, England hasn't gone *too* crazy yet, so he's going to visit his allies in order from most likely to least likely. And the most likely is indeed China, though it may not go as he hopes...

**vesana: **Oh the inani-tea! The humani-tea! The mana-tea! heheh. The Awfully Awful Punmaster is in da HOUSE! Great to see you again :D

Maybe clogs spin in the Netherlands's mind? *hurriedly fixes typos* Mistakes, what mistakes? If you see any more, please tell me - this isn't going though as much editing as Red England did, since I want to get it out quickly and not obsess over every historical fact like last time (though that was fun too).

* * *

Written in a small leather-bound book in a distinctive, elegant hand:

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: Just went to the shops with this week's ration coupons, so I have enough tea to last a little while, at least. Hopefully my personal tea rationing will come to an end soon, so long as this mission succeeds.

**Next Expedition**: Endeavor to extract essential tea supplies from China. I have determined he is the most likely to have some, and even if it tastes a tad foreign at least I could have real tea again.

~o0O0o~

"Hullo, China."

Looking surprisingly unsurprised, China let him into his mansion. "_Yīngguó_, what a pleasure! What has brought you to my humble home today?"

_I was hoping I could buy some drugs from you…hah, talk about __déjà vu._ "I was hoping we could make a business transaction."

At that China grinned like an evil Shinatty-chan. "Certainly, certainly! Come, we will have tea"—England hoped he concealed his twitch at the word 'tea' well enough—"and discuss this further." He led England into his parlor, where they sat at a low table. Within a minute one of China's servants had nipped in with a tea set, placing it on the table between them.

He firmly kept telling his eyes they were to stay firmly planted on China's face, yet somehow they kept skittering away, darting down to rest hungrily on the teapot and cups set before them. _Oh sure, make yourself more obvious, will you? _he told himself bitterly. _Show China exactly how much you want the sodding tea, show him how much he can overcharge you, hell, why don't you cut out your backbone and present it to him while you're at it? It's not as though it looks like you have one right now!_

China and England made polite small talk as the teapot cooled between them, untouched as the bowl of tea leaves beside it. England's fingers itched to remedy that, but he hesitated. In British culture, it was customary for the host to pour the tea—but was it so in Chinese culture? Or was it something about ranks or elders…? It had been far too long since he had to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of Chinese etiquette, and though he wished for nothing better than to grab the teapot and go for it, such things were generally frowned upon in polite society. These days he couldn't just pick up a cutlass and plunder China's tea as he dearly wished to do; instead he would have to use diplomacy if he wanted China to deal at all.

_Just hold on, old boy, and focus on what you're here for, the tea. Focus on the tea. _And a different mental voice said, _I *am* focusing on the tea! That's the bloody problem, it's right there in front of me and China just sits there talking about the weather and grinning like a Cheshire Cat!_

As soon as an appropriate opening came in the conversation, England interjected "I was wondering if I could perhaps buy a large quantity of tea from you?" _You idiot, could you at least look away from the sodding tea when you say that? You stare like you're America and it's the last hamburger in the world. What happened to your famed British control?_

Suddenly businesslike, China cut straight to "How would you pay?"

He managed to jerk his gaze up to meet China's. _I suppose 'in opium' would be exactly the wrong answer here, wouldn't it, ahaha._ "I'm low on funds at the moment, but I'm sure we could work out something mutually beneficial, wouldn't you agree? Unlike some nations, the British Empire always pays its debts." _It'd be just a drop in the kettle compared to how much money I owe America right now._

"No doubt, no doubt" China waved an airy hand. And then, finally, China reached forward and, with a casual and absent-minded air that made England want to shake him, slowly prepared the tea.

England just about managed not to yank the tea bowl out of China's hand or gulp it down, but it was a near thing. As the stream of the lovely drink filled his mouth England—

—froze in horror. This was _not_ tea. It was a terrible perversion of it.

It was only due to what England piously thought of as his 'good breeding' that China wasn't then and there sprayed with a mouthful of pseudo-tea. Instead he swallowed painfully and proclaimed:

"This- this _thing_ is not tea, it never was tea, and you have no right to use the same word to describe the two! This 'tea' tastes like a cow stall that hasn't been mucked out in a month—no, like the Augean stables before Heracles got there. It tastes of dust and hay and animal to an extent I last recall experiencing in 1561 when I had to flee from witch hunters who caught onto the fact that I never aged; I ended up hiding in a pile of hay in a dirty barn for a month until they found some other poor sod to persecute. It's a good thing they didn't find me, either, since I would have been the only accused witch to actually _survive _my drowning, thus proving myself to be the hellspawn they believed me to be. Now, I know I've gone off on a bit of tangent here, yet I hope you've gotten my message nonetheless: this tastes not only like a rather unhappy memory, but is in its own right foul beyond the capacity of neither of our tongues to describe."

This is exactly _not_ what England said, because he (1) still retained some vestiges of his delusions of gentlemanliness, (2) wanted to keep China in the Allies, and (3) preferred to keep his skull free of wok-shaped dents. No, he did not say any of that, but he thought if very loudly indeed, so loudly he could feel its echoes through his skull.

In a supremely heroic attempt to not show his reaction to the unwholesome liquid masquerading as tea, England fought for control. England's face was as stone but for the one thick brow that twitched like the death throes of a wooly caterpillar, a sure sign of impending trouble for anyone in the line of fire of England's baleful glare. China chatted on regardless, though, either lacking the precision ticking-off-England radar most Europeans had developed or, far more likely in England's opinion, knew exactly what he was doing and got a perverse satisfaction from it.

Through the stormy clouds churning through his mind in horrified response to the 'tea' still reverberating his tongue, England dimly heard China speak. "This is one of my favorite teas," he said, sighing happily over his own bowl. "They call it 'old man tea,' you know. That is because it is very healthy!" He leaned forward as if about to confess a dark secret. "Though of course there is also the accompanying joke that only old men have taste buds dead enough to ignore the taste. I thought _you_ wouldn't have trouble in that area, though. Not with your cooking." He paused upon seeing England's expression.

"Oh, is there something wrong, _Yīngguó_? You look as though you have been changed into your own gravestone! Ah, perhaps I made a mistake in serving you this type." He shook his head sadly. "It is not for those inexperienced in the art of tea."

It was another calculated insult, and England's eyebrows furrowed like the mighty collision of glaciers as he worked it all out. China was an ancient, wily, eccentric nation who enjoyed playing with wheels within wheels. The problem with such games, England reflected, was that, say, a train with all its wheels within each other had the tendency to not only get nowhere fast but also tended to fall over with barely a prod.

He could sit here and trade elegant insults for a few hours, or he could cut China's Gordian Knot with a few words. Considering the current state of his temper, it didn't take much for him to choose the latter and firmly set down the blasted 'tea.'

"This is revenge for the Opium Wars, isn't it," England said flatly. He didn't need to phrase it as a question when the answer was so obvious.

"No."

England frowned. "Then…was it because I didn't beat America's ridiculousness out of him as a child? I know I'd take revenge upon me if I could for that."

"No."

"That time when I called Shinatty-chan a pathetic, girly excuse for a feline meant to compensate for your raging insecurities?"

"Nǐ shuō _shénme_? What did you say? …we'll discuss _that_ later." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "But no."

"The day a few decades ago when I accidentally left you and Russia alone in the same room?"

"…no."

"That time, well, _those _times when I asserted—correctly I might add—that my dragons are far better than yours?"

"No, no…though they are not."

England's bushy eyebrows furrowed in thought as he tried to remember any other insults he had inflicted upon the other nation. After a long moment his face suddenly blanked in comprehension and then became oddly similar in appearance to that of his brother Wales in terms of sheepishness. Uncharacteristically fiddling with his hands, he cleared his throat and averted his eyes from China's. "Is it because of…well, you know, the Incident…?"

China said nothing.

"The Incident with the, ah," he licked his lips, "The pan, the pasta, and, ah, the panda?"

China still said nothing, but now with the slightest of smirks twitching at his mouth.

In classic English defensive style, England attacked. "Is that why you're sitting there and grinning at me like that, you tossser? The Incident? It happened nearly a century ago! And they say _I _keep grudges far too long! Is that why you gave me this bloody awful excuse for tea?"

_Erm. That last bit wasn't supposed to come out. Oh, to hell with gentlemanliness, I want real tea!_

China blinked innocently. "Now, now, what are you talking about with all this nonsense about revenge, _Yīngguó_? You asked for tea, I gave you tea." He sniffed in what England was sure was mock offense, eyes glinting smugly. "If that is the way you rude Westerners act with an ally willing enough to give you aid, then I will give you no more. Get your tea elsewhere." With that he stood up, gave an intentionally rude bow, and stalked away in a huff.

Left alone at the table, England glowered at China's retreating back, though it sure felt like _England_ was the one retreating at the moment despite his stationary state. Once those long sleeves disappeared from sight, England slumped a little in his chair and instead focused his glare on the 'tea' still before him. To his faint disappointment it did not combust under the ferocity of his gaze, so he sighed and, holding it at arm's length, made a very important trip to the loo.

He was quite certain that somewhere in the Geneva Conventions there was a footnote about how denying an Englishman good tea was illegal and inhumane. Some nations were just needlessly cruel.

* * *

**Wales and sheepishness heheheh...**

**Anyone care to hazard a guess about what happened in the Incident? I haven't decided whether I should tell you or not. Sometimes keeping Noodle Incidents as noodly as possible is the most fun.  
**

**Historical Note: Old man tea does indeed exist and, in an amusing incident in San Francisco, I did indeed have some. The taste of it was, in my pampered American opinion, eerily similar to what a barn might taste like. England has a strong stomach, yes, but he doesn't react well to violations of the sanctity of his tea. The references to drugs and opium all have to do with the Opium Wars and - I'm not gonna get into that here. Check out Red England if you want to learn about it.**

**Also note: Please tell me of any factual errors you find ~ I am more than a little unknowledgeable about tea and tea ceremonies.**

**Thirdly: I used the Pinyin romanization of Chinese here to match with my later romanization of Russian. Since I actually know a little Chinese, I had to put some in. "Nǐ shuō _shénme_?" means "You said _what_?" and "Yīngguó" means, of course, "England". I figure if Japan can call him _Igirisu_ and France _Angleterre_, then why can't China _Yīngguó_? Also, I completely suck at writing China, he always feels so OOC. He just doesn't quite feel like a person to me, y'know? Ah, well. Now he's done. What do you think will happen next?  
**

**Fourthly: Meh. This may be my least favorite chapter of them all, mostly because England's only slightly crazy and that isn't much fun. The next chapter is better, I swear!**


	3. The Divine Coffeetea

**VERY IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: I am not pushing any sort of caffeinated beverage agenda with this piece. The opinions expressed herein on the superiority of tea over coffee are England's, not mine. Before you flame in defense of coffee, remember this! In fact, I personally drink neither coffee nor tea, but cocoa. **

**SakuraMoriChan****: **That's not quite happened, but it's a good idea... aaaand now I want to know what panda meat tastes like. Hahaha, another hilarious idea! Under the influence of alcohol England becomes Britannia Angel, and without the influence of tea he becomes Jesus? I can say he *will* be visiting Japan, but it won't turn out quite like that. You'll see *wiggles eyebrows* I always knew there was something off about Portugal! S/He's an enabler! Does Spain know he gets innocent young countries addicted to dangerous drugs?

**Greygreenwolf****:** Don't worry, the entire world already knows you're insane! And as the Punmaster I am contractually obligated to put as many horrible pun-ishments into what I write. It's a curse. Hair products are indeed a way for France and Germany to bond - but that just made it all the more heartrending (not) when Germany used it against him *sniffs* It was so sad! ...And yes, that idea of yours is downright insane! That poor panda! And are you sure your sewer drains aren't just connected back into the clouds? An endless loop of rain and rain and rain? Just my expert opinion as one who knows much about American science, here.

**vesana****: **I'm glad you think so (though it cannot improve my opinion of my writing of him, oh well.) It might have been oolong—the sheer horror of the taste purged much of the memory of the incident from my mind. I found several possibilities as to its identity on the internet, including what they call red tea, oolong, pu'er, and what's made during the lao ren cha ceremony, but I couldn't be sure so I didn't put it in. Though what you describe does sound much like it...bleurch indeed. Pfff, the dignity I once had when it came to puns ran away to Crete years ago, the cretin. See? I barely winced there.

**Lilyflower1987****: **So am I, and so does England (though he'd never admit it, tsundere that he is). No, I never said, did I? :P As River Song says, "Spoilers!" A writer never reveals *all* their secrets ^.^

**JulietGivesUp****: **Well, not much more crazy than he usually is. England cracks me up because he thinks he's the Only Sane Man but he's actually just as crazy as the rest!

* * *

Handwriting slightly rushed and sloppy:

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: FAILED. Large quantity of 'tea' summarily added to the public sewer system, where it will no doubt keep down the rats. No actual tea found, though have developed interesting new vendetta against China. NOTE: Make sure red cloak is clean, I may need it.

**Next Expedition**: France? Bloody hell. At least he won't have China's 'tea'. Probably. He'd probably think it delicious, the bastard. NOTE: Keep 'tea' away from France.

**Addendum**: There is no way in heaven or earth I'm going to go ask France for help. Not today. Instead I suppose I could try…_that beverage_. Come now, I'm the British Empire, I can at least write its name down. Fine. _Coffee_. Even writing it is detestable to me. But if not this, then I will have to visit France…

Coffee it is, then. It's caffeinated, at least, and though it would never replace tea, it can't hurt to try some. I might even like it.

…I'm not fooling anyone with this, am I.

~o0O0o~

England gazed at the ground coffee beans in the same way a fastidious housewife might look at the remains of a small, unlucky creature the cat dropped at her feet: with revulsion, horror, and no small amount of exasperation that she'd have to scrub the floor again. He was sure it was grinning at him, somehow.

It wouldn't surprise him in the least; it was _American_ coffee, after all. America, being the absent-minded git he was (England steadfastly ignored his hypocrisy, being the King of Losing Things himself), had a tendency of leaving a trail of personal items around wherever he went: papers, pens, Pacific islands, plutonium. And coffee. After America left a mostly-empty bag of his beans at England's house, England had originally kept it in the vague hope of hexing it with something painful and embarrassing and returning it to America, but had never gotten around to doing so. Now it had a nobler purpose; to be a temporary, poor, but important replacement for his beloved tea.

He wouldn't be drinking the blasted stuff out of his good china, that was certain. What if it somehow seeped into the essence of the cup, corrupting the innocent nature that had once known only the blessings of that most holy of liquids, tea? And forever after whenever he used that cup he'd taste the undead, phantom hand of the coffee clutching at his throat, he was sure.

No, America once left a mug here as well, didn't he? _Forgetful pillock though he is, at least he's occasionally useful in his forgetfulness. _England rummaged through his cabinets, pulling out an old scone that could have been there a week or a decade, what may or may not have been the Holy Grail, and a sleepy and confused flying mint bunny. He finally found America's mug at the very back, a thick ceramic monstrosity with, of course, America's garish flag and balding chicken emblazoned on it.

He'd never made coffee before, but it wasn't too hard to figure out, and within a few minutes he the cup before him was wafting the smell of roasted coffee beans into his face, noxious as the fumes of Hell and obnoxious as America's laugh. He swallowed tightly. _The things I do for my country…_

Before he continued in his suicide mission, England took a long draw of tea, a watered-down yet still wonderful draw, just as a young man at a pub might take a shot to steady his nerves before trying his luck with that one girl who looked very attractive from that angle. He picked up the enormous mug with both hands, heat radiating through his palms, and couldn't resist taking a surreptitious glance around, as if he expected a certain American to leap out of the woodwork and crow in victory.

He clenched his eyes shut, feeling childish for doing it but unable to stop himself. _It's just coffee, not poison! Stop being so melodramatic, you're not France, for God's sake. This coffee certainly isn't tea, but it's not going to leap out and hurt you, either. Drink it already, you idiot! _ Despite England's internal harangue-utan's tirade, it still took him a long minute to raise the steaming mug to his lips.

And then, slowly, like he was Socrates holding the cup of infamous hemlock, England took a sip. He cringed reflexively when it touched his tongue, only to pause. The coffee was earthy and rich and slightly sweet, and his eyes popped open in surprise and…pleasure.

For about half a second. After that the bitterness hit, and his tongue and consciousness felt like a slug thrown in a bucket of salt, curling inward protectively as if that could halt its oncoming doom. England stared at nothing for a long, horrified moment, and then, since China was not there to be insulted, he ran to the sink and spat out the offending mouthful like it was molten lava.

~o0O0o~

Ten minutes later, as he brushed his teeth for the fourth time, (toothpaste ration be damned) he calmed down enough to begin reflecting on his experience.

Tea was bitter, yes, but it was the subtle bitterness that tasted to him of nostalgia and old, sweet sorrow and a gentle rain over London. But that coffee had all the subtlety of a half-brick to the kneecap.

If he was being courted by the two, the tea would have taken him to fancy restaurant in a tuxedo, a long walk on the pier afterwards to gaze at the stars and murmur fragrant inanities barely heard over the soft lapping of the waves. It would have kissed his hand with a sweeping bow, pressed a delicate rose into his hands and a feather-light brush of lips against his cheek.

The coffee would have thumped him over the head and dragged him back to its cave, grunting happily and laughing its head off.

Tea was liquid elegance, the drink of a gentleman and an Englishman (though the two were nigh-synonymous in England's mental thesaurus), appropriate for peaceful early mornings and delicate afternoon teatimes. Coffee was a brash, swaggering liquid chugged down by the bucket by swarthy, dirty men who went out in the evenings to brawl in pubs and get rascally drunk.

England knew some of his own people were coffee drinkers, though the fact never failed to puzzle and faintly repulse him. He blamed it all on the influence of America and his soldiers, with the way they grinned and flirted in those blasted drawls with England's young ladies.

Finally setting down his toothbrush, England exchanged weary glances with the haggard man in the mirror and headed back downstairs. It felt like someone had taken a wire brush to his tongue and then, just for fun, rubbed cyanide into it. No, wait, some of that that had been him and his toothbrush, trying to get the taste out of his mouth. But most of it had been that bloody coffee.

_I suppose I should be grateful I no longer taste China's bloody tea. The only thing is, now I taste the blasted coffee! And despite all that, I must tomorrow visit France and ask for his help, though I'd never say it in so many words. If only I didn't have to go anywhere near that frog…but he's so much more likely to have tea than America or Russia._

England sat back down at his kitchen table and picked up his neglected teacup, softly reminding it that he had just stepped away for a moment and would never leave it again. Taking a sip of the now-cool but still soothing tea, he slumped in his chair and ran a tired hand through messy hair.

_I'll just have to set aside past animosity and my utter hatred for France's slimy guts and focus on what's important here. Tea is, nothing more. Nothing more._

* * *

**Oh, England. You are such a hypocrite! Not to mention a drama queen. But that's why we love you.**

**We have an allusion to the famous red cloak! I couldn't resist. ;D**

**I also couldn't help putting in smidgens of USUKUS, since, well, they're my OTP. These become more glaring under the idea that just as wine is associated with France and Italy, beer is associated with Germany, and tea is associated with the UK, America is associated with coffee.**

**Note: It may or may not be implied here that England made the coffee wrong (since, y'know, he can burn cereal and all) and that is why he hated the taste. What do you think?**

**A FEW HISTORICAL AND FACTUAL NOTES THAT, SHOCKINGLY, ENDED UP KINDA LONG. **_**THAT'S**_** NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. NOPE. NEVER.**

**Greek philosopher Socrates was sentenced to death by drinking a poisonous ****hemlock****-based liquid. Though it's said he actually welcomed it, so not sure if my simile really holds up here. Depends how you look at it.**

**During WWII, many ****American soldiers**** were stationed in Great Britain for a time before being deployed. The local female populace, feeling the distinct lack of young British men (as they were overwhelmingly in combat or dead), swayed by the Americans' exotic charms, and suffused with thankful fervor and the we-could-die-any-moment-let's-go-have-sex-er-I-mean-a-relationship imperative, were seen jumping into American arms everywhere.**

**I found this rather amusing, not only because of the concept that Americans have 'exotic charms', but also since these days many Americans would do the same at hearing an English accent ^^**

**Wanna know how crazy that seize-the-moment imperative was? Prime Minister Winston Churchill's daughters were leaping into beds everywhere, and nobody really cared. Can you imagine the reaction in today's politics?**

**And yes, for many Britons ****teatime ****isn't the teacup-and-saucered, pinky-out thing that it is in American popular perception and for England - but he's such a fusspot and traditionalist I think it makes sense for him to act as he does. Also, crack, and this is Hetalia. I need to keep reminding myself that not everything needs to be logically sound!**

**Cyanide ****tastes very bitter, which is why poisoning someone with it must be done with caution so they don't catch on. Many animals, including humans, naturally dislike bitter tastes. This is very interesting from an evolutionary perspective because many poisonous compounds just happen to be bitter. Almond trees, for example, can produce nuts either sweet or bitter (has potentially deadly cyanide compounds, yikes!), but it's nearly impossible to tell which a particular tree is. You have to taste one to find out, and if you're naturally predisposed to dislike bitterness, then you're much more likely to walk away and not die after stuffing yourself with cyanide, yes? So I suppose you could call the drinking of coffee and eating dark chocolate subconsciously alike to going on roller coasters to feel the thrill of danger. Random tangent done!**

**And why, you ask, does England know what cyanide tastes like? Because he had a very adventurous childhood, that's why.**

**AND OFF TO THE LAND OF CHEESE AND SURRENDER MONKEYS WE GO!**


	4. The Count of Montea Cristo

**WARNING: FRANCE (Hide yo' kids, hide yo' wives, Francey-pants is comin' to tooowwn!)**

**Because it's France and England in one room, this chapter is much longer. They are so much fun to write together! Since I'm an innocent (lie) who wouldn't know an innuendo if it hit me in the face with a suggestive pose (lie, get out of my face, France), I fortunately had some friends to help me out. Much of what happens in this scene is thanks to Lilyflower1987, PirateTree, and my own personal France. Ew...that sounded wrong. Dang it, France! Why must you make everything perverted?**

**Lilyflower1987****: **o.O Whoa, whoa, steady on there! *looks around wildly* H-Here! *thrusts France at them, flees like an Italy on coffee*

**Zeplerfer****: **You enabler! You're as bad as Portugal, I swear. *finger coyly on chin* Is that what you think will happen?

Ah, but who ever said stereotypes were realistic? I looked up the corresponding table for tea and found Seychelles in 5th before the UK in 6th! A former French colony drinking like that? I bet England was very smug until she actually started drinking more than him...

Sweet tea jokes? Wha...? (You can definitely tell I'm not from anywhere near the South) As for whether Canada appears or not...only Greygreenwolf and I know that secret, and a lady never reveals all of those *coy flutter of eyelashes*

**yoong****: **Ah, so you caught on to that, did you? Hahaha! Even though he's still getting a little tea at this point, it's certainly not enough to keep the crazy away Poor *America*?

**greygreenwolf****: ***England points emphatically"That tosser tossed away all my tea!*rushes over to soggy tea"I'm so sorry poppet, yes, your father's here now to make it all better." Yes, the Boston Tea Party *may* have something to do with this, and the subject *may* come up in England's and America's conversation...I admit nothing more!

I'll take your word for it. I like the smell of coffee, not so much the taste. Actually, I think the same of tea for that matter! Yes, but English ladies whoring themselves out for chocolate and potatoes is not nearly as good for my American ego ;D Though I'll bet some of that was for tea! How big are the hailstones? Smashing windshields yet?

**vesana****: **How I imagine it happened in King Arthur's court: One of THE quests for a knight back then was to go looking for the Holy Grail (which, since they could never find the stupid thing anywhere, was usually an excuse to travel around the countriside hunting for dinner and meeting pretty peasant girls). So they never really found it, and then four hundred years later England rushes into the (long ruined) throne room, waving around the cup like a maniac, saying "So sorry, so sorry! Thanks for looking, old chaps, but it was behind the cat box the whole time!" And then he went home and promptly forgot about it again.

With the chapter titles, all I'll say is that what book it is does have some relation to what happens in that chapter, even if it is a really, really lame relation.^

**SakuraMoriChan****: **England is faintly disgusted and repulsed by you :O They're the one, get them! As for France...let's just say I like doing the unexpected.

**Catzi****: .**..I have no idea either, but it would be funny! I can definitely see him like that, with a sandwich board and everything! The man is such a drama queen I can't help but laugh :D

**The Dangerous One****: **I have a feeling this won't be the first time you'll say "poor, poor England," not with what I'll be doing to him.

**JuniperGentle****:** I didn't want to tie myself down with logic (and actual history), so it isn't set at any particular point in WWII, just as canon WWII Hetalia is. The Luftwaffe comment could have been from dreams, memories, how they're still harrying British troops...I could fudge my way out of any accusations of a particular time. :P Though I do find the idea that he's only a few years in and already like this amusing. As the empty tea chests upon empty tea chests show, he drinks a *lot* of tea. After all, tea starts to go stale after a year or two, no?

It is one of my goals in life to make as many readers of my stuff be thought mad by family and friends. *marks you off the list* Another one down!

No worries, the red cloak is Sir-not-appearing-in-this-fic. I get the feeling Red England is not much a figure of comedy. Horror, yes, pain, definitely, but not comedy.

Really? Here's my math: I used Wikipedia mostly, since I haven't had much experience with loose-leaf tea (or any tea, for that matter). On the Rationing in Great Britain page, it mentions the average and minimum ration per week as 2oz (57g). On the Tea page, it says "The amount of tea to be used per amount of water differs from tea to tea but one basic recipe may be one slightly heaped teaspoon of tea (about 5ml) for each teacup of water (200–240 ml(7–8 oz) prepared as above." So, 5ml is 5g, and 57 divided by 5 is about 11 cups a week, which is about 1.57 cups a day. No idea where the ten cups came from. So that's my (very sketchy) math.

Though I suppose I could argue that, like any addict, over centuries of use he prefers his tea *really* strong.

Do you think it would be funnier if I changed his math to end up with 20 or 30 cups? I want this crack to be accurate, of course.^

* * *

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: FAILED. A large quantity of _that liquid _has been summarily added to the public sewer system, where it will no doubt mutate salamanders into giant albino alligators in classic American style. It's probably radioactive as well, bloody Americans. My poor tongue and I now know the horror that is _that liquid_, and I may feel forever tainted by my brush with it. These notes must never fall into enemy hands, for they would undoubtedly use this knowledge in my torture. Especially if they used one of my teacups. Bastards.

**Next Expedition**: France, blast and damnation. Unfortunately, of the rest of the Allies he's the most likely to have tea. The frog wouldn't know good tea if he drowned in it, but at least he—

NOTE: After tea supplies have stabilized, prepare a large, hot vat and invite the frog over for tea. Heheheh.

Wait, what am I thinking? He'd just poison it with his grotesque Frenchness. No, my dear tea will never know the hand of that pervert! I'll not have such innocence corrupted!

At any rate, what tea he gives me might stink of his damn cologne but at least it would be real tea, not whatever the hell China gave me or _that liquid._

At least he might have some; France always goes on about how cultured he is, and tea is nothing if not cultured. The English drink it, after all.

~o0O0o~

For perhaps the first time in either of their existences France had something England wanted, and that unbalanced him. How does one act when asking a Frenchman for assistance? England, having never done so and proud of it, hadn't the least idea.

France opened his door with a flourish, leaning on the doorjamb in what he probably thought was a sexy pose. "Ah, _Angleterre_! To what do I owe this pleasure, _mon cochon_?"

"I'm not your blasted pig, France. Let me in." As far as Anglo-Gallic relations went, England was being remarkably cordial, and France noticed. Elegant eyebrows rose in surprise and he stepped aside without another word. Wrapped in thought, England strode by and, making a small arc around France to avoid any sneak-gropings, navigated the old mansion's labyrinthine halls to France's parlor, where he sat in his usual armchair. It was only after he sat down that he realized that he had done all of that completely on autopilot, and even worse, that he actually _had_ a 'usual' chair in France's parlor. _I despise the man beyond words, yet I still have been here often enough over the years to know where all his rooms are and which chair is my favorite? Ugh._

Mood soured even further by this unwelcome epiphany, he glowered at his ancient enemy and sometimes ally as he glided into the room. The décor of the parlor was ugly beyond belief, but England had to hand it to France; he matched it well. But then again, France was also ugly beyond belief, so it all worked out nicely in England's opinion.

France settled himself languorously on the chaise longue opposite, absently twirling a rose he had pulled out of nowhere as he appraised—or ogled, you could never be sure with _him_—England. He never told France (for obvious reasons), but it irked England to no end to see his perverted monkey fingers fondling his floral emblem like that. If he felt the need to stroke something virginal and pure so much, why couldn't he go twirl an iris? It was his flower, after all. If anyone ever asked England why he chose the rose as his national flower, he would have immediately responded that he liked the thorns. It would take quite a lot of coffee in his prized china poured down his throat for him to admit he liked them for the flower and the scent as well.

England's thoughts, which were being diverted with strange ease today, were interrupted.

"_Mon petit mignon_, you have been so oddly silent! You aren't plotting anything _too_ painful, are you? I'd hate to muss my hair when I just got it how I like it thanks to the new shampoo shipments from America, who obviously sees what is important in life." He sighed happily.

"I'm not your little cutie, and your hair always looks like a greasy haystack, no matter how many beauty products you rub in."

He smirked. "I would be careful in throwing around such insults, _ma fifille_—"

"I'm not your little girl, you twat!"

France continued on regardless.—if you'll recall your charming attempts to copy it a few centuries back. As you well know, my _coiffure _has a fabulous, 'just rolled out of a love-nest' air that none can resist."

"Except everyone with a few brain cells to rub together."

"_Non, non!_ I suppose your bland cooking has left you without taste in all areas of life. You are very nearly the only one to resist my ample charms!" He pouted in what was probably supposed to be a sexy manner.

"My cooking is delicious, and I suppose the latter _could_ be true, if when you say 'you are very nearly the only one' you actually mean 'you and absolutely everyone else'."

"Not so, _mon canard! _Even _Amérique…_" France drifted off into happy memories, or at least pretended he did.

"I'm not your damn duck, and—wait a tick, finish that sentence."

"Ooo, right there…ah, _pardon_, I was thinking of time spent in much more pleasant company. What were we talking about?" He blinked with an innocence England knew he had not possessed for nigh on two millennia.

"Finish the bloody sentence! You better not have been saying 'America' or I will kill you in so many ways—"

"My, my, is _mon chou_ finally admitting his feelings of _l'amour_ for the boy?"

"I have no such thing! No one deserves your greasy paws all over them, not even a git like America." He paused. "And I'm not your…cabbage? What the hell?"

France shook his head pityingly. "You keep telling yourself that, _Angleterre,_ and you'll never get into his charming bald eagle boxers. Now, you no doubt did not come here merely to discuss _Amérique's_ performance in bed or for my _merveilleux_ company, for reasons beyond even my comprehension. And you have not yet attempted to kill me, so I must assume you are here for a reason more important than my conversation."

England scowled at France as he thought. Should he continue probing about America? No, he'd just hear more carefully fabricated lies, since there was no possibility that _America_ would have sex with _France_. They were just falsehoods. France was a frog with a serpent's tongue, after all. It would be best if he just accepted France's change of topic.

Besides, he was here for tea, not France's lies. He blinked in surprise. Distracted by France's grotesque excuse for a face, he had not thought about tea for several minutes now. _How peculiar. Could it be that I no longer need as much as I did? I do so hope so._ But now just the thought of tea left him salivating. _Blast and damnation._

England looked at France and considered his next words carefully. 'If you would be so kind, dear neighbor, would you very much mind giving me your tea?' was far too polite for a creature like France. People claimed for some strange reason that England's cooking gave them terrible stomachaches, but they obviously had never tried being polite to France, or they'd know what a _real_ stomachache felt like.

Yet 'Hand over the tea and I won't hurt you too much,' though much more gratifying and in line with his current mood, had its dangers. For example, perhaps France hid stores of tea all over his house that England would never find unless he willingly gave them up? That's what England himself did these days, after all, with what little he had. He couldn't let the tea bandits get to it, or for that matter the little mauve dragons. Sometimes it seemed the whole world was after his tea.

With difficulty he dragged his mind back yet again onto the topic at hand. _Why am I so easily distracted today? I'll bet it's all France's fault somehow._

In the end he went with simplicity. "Tea. Do you have any?"

France tilted his head thoughtfully. "I might."

"I am willing to purchase what you have." Even at that slight politeness his stomach twisted uncomfortably. Or that could have been the lack of tea. He wasn't sure.

"I might be willing to let you."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously at the speedy progress he was making. "Let me see it before I buy."

France smiled. "_Certainement_. Excuse me for just a moment." He exited, and for the next few minutes England fidgeted in his chair, wondering whether this was all an intricate trap to extract his own tea from him. He could have told France it was a hopeless endeavor; he'd have submitted to another Norman Conquest before giving up his tea. And since the chances of the former happening were absolutely zero, it made the latter a practically negative possibility.

Finally France strolled back in the room and tossed a fist-sized bag onto the table between them. England barely stopped himself from railing about France's failure in treating the tea with respect. He already looked desperate and pathetic enough as it was.

"There you go, _Angleterre_. All my tea."

England looked at him in shock. "…_this_ is it? This is _all_ of it?"

He sniffed. "You are not the only one rationing, _mon crotte_. It's a few years old, but surely it will be good enough for your purposes."

"I'm not your dropping _or_ your goat cheese," England said absently, studying the bag intently as France ran a serene hand through his hair, half-lidded eyes on England.

Of course France was serene. He had his blasted shampoo back, didn't he? It was really a pity about that, England reflected. He had tucked a bottle of the stuff in his coat pocket in the hopes of making a trade, one addict to another. _N-Not that I'm an addict or anything so ridiculous_, he scoffed, mind already turning back to the image of a steaming teacup. He wrenched it away with difficulty. So the Shampoo Stratagem wouldn't work. But what would France want in return? He decided his usual direct method would be most appropriate here.

"It's terrible, but it'll have to do. What do you want in return, bloody frog? How much?"

"_Non, non, ma puce._ Nothing so…how do you say…_expensive_ as that."

England's eyebrows lowered like a particularly guarded portcullis. "I'm not your sodding flea. What. Do you. Want."

France leered, his own eyebrows quirking up and down suggestively.

"Oh, no, there is absolutely no way I'm going to—"

France interrupted, sighing with mock melancholy, "Well then, _mon ange anglais_, then you will be sadly bereft of my tea."

"Fuck you, frog."

"Oh, I dearly hope so."

England grimaced. There was a time was he wouldn't have left himself open for that, but he desperately needed a cuppa right now. Or five. And a large sledgehammer for France's froggy face.

When he had briefly considered prostituting himself for tea, France had not been on his mental list of potential clients. In fact he was so far off the list he was practically in the Antarctic Circle.

England looked from France to the bag of tea and back again, only to find he much preferred the sight of the tea and focused solely on it. _What a choice._

Distantly he heard France stand and say "I'll just let you consider my offer, _oui?_ Don't mind me." He began walking towards something on the other side of the room, but England was far too busy having a mental breakdown to care.

Tea but France or no France but no tea?

Two overwhelming imperatives warred in his mind. One was ancient and deep-seated, ingrained in every fiber of his being. _Have nothing to do with France and sex. Nothing whatsoever. That is such a bad idea I cannot believe I have not already punched him in the face and ran. France and sex and England are three words that should never, ever be in the same mental frame. Especially not a mental image. Ugh. GET OUT, GET OUT BEFORE HE TAKES YOUR SILENCE FOR AGREEMENT AND STARTS FRANCING ALL OVER YOU!_

The other was far less eloquent, but it went _teateateateatea_ so that didn't really matter.

His mind, weary and without tea for too long, strained under the pressure, strained and twisted and shook with it, until something, somewhere…broke.

~o0O0o~

That evening, England meditatively weighed the now-mostly-deflated remains of what had been France's bag in the palm of one hand, the other holding a very welcome teacup. He had been considering something for some time now, and with his ravenous teavore's appetite sated for the minute and a slight surplus in hand, it was time to put his plan into action.

"Minty, could you come here for a minute?"

The flying mint bunny flitted into the room. "Hello, England! What is it?"

"I have something very important for you to do. A very important mission!" Minty was an absolute dear, but she wasn't the brightest even among magical bunnies. It was best to use short sentences and clear language around her.

She fluttered at attention, saluting adorably. "Anything for you, England!"

He smiled. "Thank you, poppet. Do you see this bag? It has enough tea for one cup or so of tea. I'd like you to keep it safe for me, if you would. I want you to give this to me if I ever run out of tea and start acting very strangely, all right?"

"No problem, England! The Flying Mint Bunny is on the job!" Her ears quivered at attention.

"Hide it somewhere I won't think to look for it. If all goes well with my search, it's no matter; it's old and French and practically tasteless. But if I ever do need it, I trust you, Minty, to save me."

"I've got this, England!" She grabbed the bag from his hand and shot off, probably to hide it in a warren somewhere.

_I hope Minty is up to this task. I won't need this, of course, it's merely an…emergency measure. Yes. Like- like arsenic pills for spies, or a pathetic last cavalry charge before the inevitable surrender. What cheerful similes…I need another cup in me._

~o0O0o~

France moaned. It was not a happy moan, such as one he might emit at the height of passion, but instead a moan of What-just-happened, I'm-in-pain-and-I-don't-know-why, and possibly even I'll-need-a-whole-bottle-of-wine-tonight-and-no-two-ways-about-it.

He tried to reach up to rub his groggy skull, only to find to his surprise that not only were his arms strangely immobile, but that that down was up and up was, in fact, down. He looked down, or rather, up, to see his body wrapped in oddly familiar looking chains and ropes and tied in intricate knots to the ceiling.

Even by his standards, this was unusual.

He squinted bleary eyes and tried to remember what had happened to get him into this position.

As England had stared blankly at the tea, France made his way towards a certain cabinet in the corner of the parlor. Parlors were traditionally where the master of the house would entertain guests, and France was always ready to do just that. He chuckled softly to himself as he pulled out ropes, handcuffs, and a few other…specialty items he had 'liberated' from Germany's house.

"_Honhonhonhon_…oh what fun we shall have, _ma petit loutre._"

He had crept up behind England, tools in hand, and paused to consider his next move. Should he wait for England to come to the inevitable conclusion and submit to the bindings, or should France take the initiative? He would have loved to see a submissive England's face, but there would be time for that later. And England was always so cute when he was surprised and flustered. France nodded to himself. Time to begin the festivities.

Grinning to himself, he leaned forward toward the seemingly frozen England, took a deep breath, and then England had turned with a snake's speed and a glint in his eye that France had not seen in centuries and—

And that's were France's memories ended. As he swung gently in the twilight, he pouted to himself. Foiled again. He sighed, only to quickly brighten. France, ignoring the irony of his current position, was never one to feel low for long, and this situation, while not quite what he anticipated, could turn out to be very enjoyable as well. After all, this was not the first time he had been tied to the ceiling with his own sex toys, and it would not be the last…if he had any say in it, that is. When it came to _l'amour_ France was nothing if not…flexible. He just needed to somehow reach the phone to invite a 'friend' or two over...

* * *

**I bet you thought for a minute there that we wouldn't find out what happened to France, didn't you? :D**

**I was originally going to have France be tea-less, but then PirateTree pointed out a few historical points that made that idea rather unrealistic. And then I wanted to have a Chekov's Gun (or rather, Chekov's Tea) in place for a later incident, and this seemed the perfect source for it.**

"**particularly guarded portcullis" Oh I am so proud of the sheer awesomeness of that one, you have no idea.**

**The Tudor Rose is the floral emblem of England; the iris is France's (that's what the fleur-de-lis is).**

**France's endearments: Translations are (mostly) provided by an irritable England in-text, but I thought you might want to have a guide at hand whenever you want to use them on friends, family, and random strangers in the street! Or what to run away from if a random stranger on the street calls you them. I'd try to explain why these endearments are what they are, but, well, the French. Do they need a reason? **

**mon cochon: my pig**

**mon mignon: my cutie**

**ma fifille: my little girl**

**mon canard: my duck**

**mon chou: my cabbage/pastry**

**ma crotte: my dropping/small, round goat cheese **

**mon puce: my flea**

**mon ange anglais: my English angel. That's what it **_**should**_** mean, anyway. I had to use Google Translate, but on a whim I decided to put in an allusion to Britannia Angel, because why not. JuniperGentle says this is the right one now!  
**

**ma petit loutre: my little otter**

**Why do the French get such hilarious/awesome endearments? I'm jealous.**

**I find it amusing that just after France calls England a little girl, England calls him a twat, originally a term for the female genitals. But that's because I'm a crude, crude American.**

**And yes, the word should probably be "Anglo-French" rather than "Anglo-Gallic" but I like it better. So there *sticks out tongue***

**You think this is the whole story of France and his shampoo? You think wrong! Now, will I tell you the rest…? *taps chin thoughtfully***

**If you don't ship America and France, don't worry; I am mostly certain he was just teasing England here. Mostly. And if you don't ship America and England, don't worry. You can just think of it as England being an ex-older brother and as France being, well, France. **_**Vive l'amour!**_

**Have I mentioned how funny I find it that the ads that come up for this story are all tea related? My mental teadeprived!England just sits and drools.**

**Who or what do you think is next on England's list?**


	5. The Great Gatstea

**Wow, all of you seemed to think England would go to Russia next! Your reasons are good, but I think you might also be laboring under the misapprehension that England's tea supply problems will be quickly solved with a visit with America. Let me just say: we are not even halfway done yet! England can get faaar more crazier than this. And the nations he hits up/assaults for tea will all be Allies and Axis. I wouldn't want to make this too logical, after all, and have him go to India, Ceylon, or Turkey. (Also I can't write them.) So!**

**Catzi**: That's a good idea for an omake-even though I already have two little ones, I'll write one on that idea too. Thanks!

**yoong**: Pfff, England _voluntarily_ show affection to France? Never! France should be glad he's still able to..ahem, enjoy himself. I too love USUKUS with some FrUK for fun.

**JuniperGentle: **Believe me, the next time France and England meet, England will be so far beyond the realm of sanity that their interaction will be even _crazier_.

France deserves his own verb, I think; nobody can quite replicate the...uniqueness of what he does. Normally England doesn't countenance creating new verbs like that, but he makes exceptions in cases of tea deprivation and France. I for one have no intention of ever finding out how that happened, either O_O

Dang it! I had it like that originally, too! *hurriedly fixes* No officer, there's no problem here *guilty look*

Here's the real question: are the little mauve dragons hallucinations like Minty is a hallucination (actually real, no one else can really see them) or are they actual hallucinations?

**SakuraMoriChan**: The crazy thing is that they're all real endearments! French people actually say them in all seriousness! Only the French...*shakes head* And as for Canada...you'll see. ^o^

**greygreenwolf***you open the door to see Russia in dungarees smiling with a broken sunflower*you shut the door and run for your life* A teacup with wings and a halo! Hahaha! I may have to put that in somewhere...

**vesana***chuckles* Before I wrote anything else in this chapter, I knew that was how I wanted it to end. So very...France. Perversi-tea: what better word for everyone's favorite Francetea-pants?

**Lilyflower1987**: That's really the only situation I can see that really happening, before America knew any better/really needed the help. I get the feeling France really likes young, unspoiled, virgin lands, honhonhon. Certainly not anytime in the past two centuries in my book.

**ThisIsTheCircus**: And I love writing it, so, really, it's fun for everyone involved^

**AliceCrowleyTheFullMetalKitty: **Yet another vote for Russia! Where are y'all getting this? Also, very unique name ya got there.

**Thanks for all your love, guys! I bounced up in my chair like a happy preschooler when I logged in to find nine new reviews! Count'em, **_**nine**_**!**

* * *

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: SUCCESS, if that is what you call barely a few cups' worth, taken under duress, of old dusty teas that smell faintly of cheese. 

**Next Expedition**: Russia? What a joke, hah! I have little desire to face him ever again; America it is, then. Meeting another of my least favorite nations? No doubt this will also be a marvelous conversation…

~o0O0o~

He had quite a lot of tea the next morning, needing a full dose before meeting with someone like America (or so he argued to himself). It was beyond delicious, and in a happy haze England realized why the Greek gods had been so grumpy all the time. They only had ambrosia, after all, not tea. _Poor bastards_.

Unfortunately it took him several hours to track America down. England finally found him in the training yards doing one-fingered pushups, an absurd pile of hamburgers balanced on his back. He waved at England with the burger, unsurprisingly, in his other hand.

"Yo, England! Didja hear about the sweet stuff I did the other day? Dude, Germany was being a total jerk as usual and he tried to—

Despite his deep doubts on whether this trip would result in any tea whatsoever, England interrupted before the flow of self-love could gain momentum.

"Before you start talking, lend me you ear.

This won't take long, lad—have no fear

But there's something I must ask

If I am to last

Through this war with my sanity clear."

America paused his pushup in surprise, hamburger halfway to his mouth. "The hero's always ready to save the day, England! …But why're you talkin' so weird an' freaky? Well, freakier than normal, anyway."

England harrumphed.

"_You're_ the odd speaker here, if you'll recall—

But that doesn't matter now, I've no time for a brawl

And though I hate to request

You're sadly the best

Of the options I have left, bugger all."

America stared at the other nation, ignoring the slight upon his heroing skills in favor of far stranger matters. "Dude, seriously, why are you talking like that? You sound like that Rattlepike guy you're always going on at me about, all rhyming and stuff."

England flushed in fury. _Why must America always mock my speech? _He's_ the one who mucked up my language. And those imprecations against my literature I cannot tolerate!_ He threw his arms into the air, hands unconsciously grasping as if to throttle his annoying ally.

"His name was Shakespeare, you twat!

And he rarely rhymed, that's enough about _that_.

My speech has naught wrong with it

I'm just a normal, proper Brit

I don't know why I'm even asking you for help, you brat."

America waved a dismissive hamburger. "Okay, so you're even crazier than normal. Whatever weirdness you're planning won't work against me, the hero! I can deal, I'm no zero." He froze in horror. "Oh crap you've got me doing your weirdness too! Is it catching? Am I gonna die? I can already feel my eyeballs start to fry—!"

England rolled his own eyes.

"Now before you go on a talking spree

Just wait a moment, listen to my plea:

I don't suppose

You have any of those

Wonderful, lovely leaves of tea?"

Diverted from thoughts of his own limerick-suffused demise, America laughed. "What? No way I have that gross leafy water stuff! I threw it off my shores centuries ago, don't you remember? Hahaha, you must be getting old if you don't remember that! You were so pissed! 'Cept I was cleverly disguised as an Indian so you never figured out it was me." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "The only bad part was that Boston Harbor smelled like the yucky stuff for a week."

England snorted.

"Of course I knew it was you, you berk!

A tall blond Indian with a permanent smirk?

I was fooled not a whit

I never have been, you git

Now I mourn that tea thrown in the murk."

"Hey, my disguise was _so_ cunning! I was—Hey, why're you walking away? If you need caffeine _that_ bad, I've got some soda or coffee around here somewhere…"

"I've no time for your childishness today, or ever

Why did I think you had tea? _You_? Never!

And so now I will go

To a nation with much snow

_Russia_ with tea? A hopeless endeavor..."

As he stomped away, England swallowed uncomfortably, feeling the itch at the back of his throat that only tea could sooth. Perhaps he could stop for a cup at his house before facing Russia? He supposed he could stop for just a minute or two; Russia was not one to be confronted with a tea-less psyche.

_Really, what made me go to America at all? With our past, he's probably even _less_ likely to have tea than Russia. And he's certainly not one to appreciate the gloriousness that is tea, is he; no, he's a nation of drinks that practically slap you in the face with a haddock. If the haddock was stuffed with enough sugar to poison a small child or bitter enough to leave one's face permanently frozen in distaste.  
_

_Well, he's as annoying as a toddler with an air horn, but at least his smile is just gratingly cheerful and not creepily terrifying. But now I'll have had to suffer through both, blast and damnation._

He sighed, rubbing a thick eyebrow, and one traitorous thought sneaked in under the doors he had emphatically closed on it. _What if Russia doesn't have any? What am I supposed to do then?_

* * *

**So many bad rhymes and worse rhythm! I hope it didn't hurt your brains too much. The idea for this came from the fact that poetry really isn't my preferred or best artistic medium, and whenever I try to write some in any form or style it always ends up in a bad limerick form. So I had to share that talent with the world. No need to thank me, I did it for the children.**

**Did anyone catch that England's notes at the beginning also sort of not really rhymed? They were near or almost rhymes and not in any particular form since he wasn't completely like that yet. *high fives self* Booyah! (Was it clear throughout this scene that England had no idea he was talking like that?)**

**If you're not American (where every child is told about it repeatedly from a young age, 'cause it's awesome), the two are referring to the ****Boston Tea Party****, at which the rebellious group the Sons of Liberty boarded three ships full of tea and dumped the stuff into Boston Harbor to protest taxes, the monopoly of the East India Company, and the policies of the British government. Some of them dressed like Mohawk warriors, which not only concealed their faces but was also a symbolic declaration of identification with America the land over their official status as subjects of Great Britain. 342 chests of tea were dumped into the harbor. When America says England was pissed, he means very angry. But at the news he might have become the other definition too…**

**This was very short, especially compared to the long-winded Frenchness of the last chapter, but no worries, all! This is not the last time we'll meet everyone's favorite hero. Not by a long shot.**

**Random trivia for this chapter: I briefly considered (and laughed about) replacing the line in the second-to-last stanza "A tall blond Indian with a permanent smirk?" with "As sure as my name **_**isn't**_** Captain Kirk." You're welcome ^.^**

**Next up: Russia! This may be my favorite of the hitting-up-the-Allies scenes. You'll see why :D Oh, and England thinks Russia doesn't drink tea, and though this is not true (as several of you pointed out) that's one of the reasons he's left him for last. One of the others is that Russia is effin' terrifyin'. A third may or may not be that he likes talking to America; if so, he'd never admit it, tsundere that he is.**


	6. War and Teas

**Y'all have no idea how much I wanted to name this chapter "From Russia With Love," but it didn't end up happening (for a variety of reasons). Last chapter was kinda lame (IMHO take an amusingly tea-deprived England! *shoves chapter at reader, flees***

**Amelia Mills**: Thanks! I can't wait either! Oh, wait, it's right here...*sheepish grin*

**SakuraMoriChan**: Poor England was a poet and was not aware of the fact! *winks* No, no don't stop the amusingly inaccurate predictions! They're so fun to prove wrong! ;D

**Catzi**: That's a large part of my logic right there Calm down, calm down, the Omakes are still a long way away! And I just wrote it, so you can be sure it'll turn up.

**Greygreenwolf**: Wey-al, I wan'ed fer all y'all Brits to unnerstan' whut Ahy wus talkin'bout. And pff, please, I've been infected for a long time. I read so much Terry Pratchett as a child I sometimes write with British spellings and use "take away" instead of "take out I watched so much Monty Python and Eddie Izzard that when I act all formal or do presentations my voice unconsciously slips into a light RP (one that's probably really inaccurate, to boot). It's super freaky sometimes! (And I almost just wrote "It's rather peculiar at times" instead of that last sentence just now, in an accent. o.o)

He hasn't a clue! Tying France to the ceiling with his own sex toys is all in a day's work for England, but what he's about to do next...well, you'll see.

It would taste like...leprechans. Yeah!

What, still? At least it's not a rain of blood...?

**ThisIsTheCircus**: I'm glad you like them, being bad at poetry is apparently a talent of mine Now I just need to find a job with it…

**AliceCrowleyTheFullMetalKitty**: Indeed, Japan may make an appearance sometime in the future...*flutters eyelashes coyly* I'll admit no more than that, though!

**imagination junkie**: Thank you! :D It makes me sad when authors never finish stories, so I make sure I have a good amount of material already written and a full outline of the ending before I start posting. Similes and metaphors are, to my mind, puns in heavy disguise, so I love thinking of the craziest-possible-yet-still-evocative figurative language. It's just so much fun!

In writing that chapter, on a whim I looked up French endearments and up came this awesome list of all the hilarious things they say to their loved ones. It just seemed the perfect France sort of thing to say to England, whose fury at the ridiculous over-the-top and French nature of the endearments overcomes his unwillingness to admit he actually knows his least favorite language.

**Oh, he loses it in this chapter, all right! It'll take quite a lot of tea for him to find it again, too.^**

**Enjoy! I know I enjoyed writing it, though I don't think Russia felt the same…**

* * *

In slightly shaky script; the tremors of fear, perhaps?

England's Notes

**Results of Previous Expedition**: FAILURE. America is a git, and that's all I'll say on the matter. I just hope he never sees me if the lack of tea starts making me act oddly.

**Next Expedition**: Russia it is, then. I only wish I could drown this sorrow in tea. Don't prisoners about to be executed get a last meal or something of that sort? I should be able to demand a last cup (or several gallons) of tea! Apparently that custom is not practiced in Russia, the bastard. In Soviet Russia, tea drink you! Ahaha! 

…What the hell did I just write?

~o0O0o~

Somehow his impromptu teatime turned into an evening staring at his tea-tin wishing he didn't have to ask Russia for help. _Russia's bloody terrifying—not that I'd ever admit it out loud—is it really necessary that I ask for his help? I know my demonology, what deal with the devil will I have to sign to get my beloved tea? I know that time I summoned him couldn't have been an accident; he truly is a demon of some sort. _

_Hell, what are the odds he even _has_ tea? Does he even know what tea _is_? I've always had the impression that they only drink vodka at Russia's house, drink it like I drink tea, i.e. like water. Which, if I remember my elementary Russian from a few centuries ago, is rather amusing since "vodka" means "water." Ha. Aha. Oh bugger all; what am I going to do if he doesn't have any and I looked at his creepy smile for hours, all for nothing? Or worse, what if he has some and refuses to share?_

So his thoughts went, round and round, and he eventually nodded off in his favorite armchair, empty teacup clenched in his hands like a teddy bear.

The next morning, though, he awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed and at peace. Surely Russia had some tea, and he was a nice enough chap to share. Really, England didn't know what he had been so worried about. In the golden sunshine of a new morning, everything looked so much more hopeful, and he smiled brightly at the songbirds and Minty harmonizing outside. _Is this what America feels like all the time? No wonder he's so optimistic and sunny! _But instead of the usual mental roll-of-the-eyes that always accompanied such thoughts, he found himself instead smiling wider. _I'm glad he's so happy all the time._

"Take care of the house for me, won't you, Minty?" he called to the chorus outside.

"Where are you off to on this fine morn, England?" Minty asked, fluttering her wings.

"Russia's house," he said happily. "I'm sure he'll share his tea with me if I ask nicely."

For some reason, this statement did not excite the same pleasure in her that it did in him, for the songs of both the flying mint bunny and the birds faltered and stopped. "…Russia's house?" Minty asked.

"That's right!" His smile didn't weaken in the slightest.

"Are you feeling quite all right, England?"

"Never better!" This was the exact truth. He couldn't remember feeling happier in his life.

"…Aren't you going to have a cup of tea this morning?" Minty asked cautiously.

"What? No, I don't feel like it this morning. I'll just nip over to Russia's and pick some up for afternoon tea. It will go splendidly with a biscuit or two, don't you think?"

His magical friend eyed him askance, though for the life of him England couldn't figure out why. Perhaps she thought he was missing something?

The realization hit like a book of etiquette upside the head. _Of course! You don't go to ask for something without offering something in return. Deportment 101, that._

Problem solved, he beamed sunnily and bustled away to the kitchen and gardens.

~o0O0o~

Silence reigned through the old mansion, silence cold and sharp and heavy. Silence icy enough to freeze the warmest of souls, jagged enough to pierce the strongest shields, thick enough to crush the hardiest of spirits. Silence suddenly broken disrespectfully by a jolly rhythm beat on the door, and a now affronted silence strode off in a huff, muttering about how the youth of today didn't respect a well-aged silence when they heard one.

The Baltics hovering respectfully behind him, Russia opened the front door of his house. Several facts jumped out to him very quickly. One: There was a nation on his doorstep. Two: That nation had a large bundle of sunflowers in his arms, along with a small box. Three: That nation was beaming brightly and widely enough to match his sunflowers. Four: That nation was England. _England_.

A flabbergasted Russia rolled all these observations through his mind again in the hopes it would make sense the second time around. England. Was on his doorstep. With sunflowers. And a smile warm enough to melt Siberia. No, it didn't make any sense that time, either.

Russia's mind began working very quickly. Belarus was the only one who ever smiled upon coming to Russia's house, at which point Russia himself would rapidly stop smiling and begin running. Perhaps this was one of her ploys to marry him? But no, this was most certainly England in front of him, grinning with a cheerfulness Russia had always thought the perpetually grumpy nation incapable of expressing. England frowned, yes, England smirked like the cheating pirate he was, most definitely, but a honest, open smile? Never. Perhaps it was part of a scheme by the Axis, the other Allies, or by England himself? But England's sweet smile was completely natural, completely unfeigned, and Russia remained baffled before it.

"Good morning, Russia!" England said happily, smile larger than the Tsarsky Kolokol and bright enough to blind Russia and the three Baltics cowering behind him. "Here, I have brought you sunflowers and scones!" he said, thrusting the items into Russia's unresisting grip.

And then like a small child greeting their favorite uncle, like all that was written in the dictionary under 'glomp', like a sure sign that the end of days was nigh, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland bounced forward and warmly hugged the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics around the waist.

Russia stood stiff in astonishment for a long moment, frozen with not just ice for once, before stumbling backwards, away from the inexplicable embrace.

The four stared at the cheery apparition before them, and because he didn't have anything coherent or logical to say at this point, Russia retreated to what little familiarity he could find in this bizarre situation. "…Have you finally decided to become one with Russia?"

"Certainly, anytime!" England chirped, and Russia had to hold onto the doorjamb to keep from falling over from the shock. England continued, oblivious, "Just as soon as I get—oh, hello, Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia! I nearly didn't see you there by the door. Whatever are you doing?"

"N-nothing, nothing, Mr. England," the three chorused reflexively. Lithuania hurriedly hid his camera behind his back. There was no way Poland or America would believe him about this without photographic proof. Heck, _he_ didn't believe it and he was standing right here.

Russia had a small epiphany and, unnerving smile reappearing, prodded England's forehead with a thick, gloved finger. "Perhaps you have had a magical mishap, _Angliya_? You switched bodies with _Italiya_, da?"

England sent him an innocent, bemused look. "What? No, of course not, I'm England. Whatever are you talking about?"

"You are not acting as you usually do. What has brought this on?"

"I'm just so happy! And it's all thanks to you!"

Russia blinked. "_C__hto?_All thanks to…me?"

"You wouldn't believe how long I've been looking for it, but you've saved everything and no mistake! At first I thought you wouldn't even have any but then I decided 'to heck with it all, who knows, he might have some anyway' and you do and it's so nice of you to help me out like this despite our rocky pasts and have I mentioned—"

As England chattered on like a hamster on crack, Russia realized he should probably be _kol_-ing and plotting how to use this new bubbliness of England to precipitate a takeover of the United Kingdom, but this was just so odd he couldn't help but be uneasy and nonaggressive. _Nobody_ just visited Russia and smiled at him and hugged him like that, _especially_ not England. It was like Italy giving up pasta; strange and wrong and very, very unsettling.

"_Angliya_, what are you talking about? I don't remember agreeing to anything."

England cocked his head, smile becoming puzzled and unsure. "Why, giving me your tea, of course."

Well. He had not expected _that_.

"Give you…my tea?"

"Of course! Did you know I can smell it on your breath even under the vodka? That's amazing that I can do that, don't you think?"

"…Excuse me, _Angliya_, I need to talk to my subor- friends for a minute. If you'll excuse me a moment..."

"Certainly, certainly." England said jovially. "I'll wait here."

Russia slammed the door as though there was a rabid wolf on the other side, released a heavy breath, and turned to the Baltics, surreptitiously wiping his forehead. "Did any of you have anything to do with this?" he asked, turning up the amiable intimidation that was his stock in trade.

They all shuddered in unison. "N-no, Mr. Russia!"

"Then where did he get the idea?"

Lithuania shook his head. "I've no idea, sir."

"Do we have tea that we could give him?"

Lithuania hesitated for a moment, flicking mentally through the kitchen's stores, and miserably concluded, "No."

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "How did that happen?"

"If-If you recall, Mr. Russia, China visited Tuesday for your meeting, and then we had the re-steeped leaves for breakfast these last few mornings. There hasn't been any to be had the shops for a long time now…"

"Da, I see." Russia turned back to the door, which he somehow felt was laughing at him, and steeled himself.

_It's disconcerting—no, to be honest, it's _creepy—_how he keeps smiling like that_, Russia thought, ignoring the hypocrisy. _And now I must face him again and_ _tell him I have no tea_. _With whatever strange state he's in, who knows what he might do? I have never seen this side of England before, and I never wish to again._

Fiddling with his scarf with a nervousness the world had not seen in a thousand years, Russia creaked the door open again. England still stood there, smiling vaguely at the whole world, and Russia swallowed harshly.

"I regret to tell you, _Angliya_, but, ah..." he felt like he was simultaneously telling a child their puppy had died and a serial killer that the victim had survived. Taking a deep breath, he spit it out. "Wedonothaveanytea."

England froze, and everyone held their breaths. His pupils abruptly shrank to pinpoints, eyes focusing on Russia with a terrible intentness, and then the smile still on his face suddenly became very, very wrong.

"_What."_

There was a thud somewhere behind Russia as Latvia fainted, and at the sight of what stood before him, Russia wished he could do the same.

~o0O0o~

Eight hundred miles away in a Warsaw beauty parlor, Poland paused a brief moment in his nigh-incessant chatter with his hairdresser.

"OMG, did you just, like, hear something?"

She sent Poland a confused look. "Broski, like what are you talking about?"

"Freaky. I totally thought for a minute there that I heard, like, screaming or something! As if! Whatever, so like anyway the other day I was painting my nails this rad hipster pink and…"

* * *

**Oh...Poland. Poland Poland Poland...**

**I haven't the least idea why, but perhaps my favorite part of this chapter is that not only Minty but even the **_**birds**_** stopped singing at the mention of Russia. Even the birds! **

**This facet of teadeprived!England amuses me to no end. He even uses 'heck' instead of 'hell'!**

**England, of course, acts very OOC in this and for good reason, but do you think Russia is acting too OOC as well? I wanted to show how very freaky it is for England to be acting like this, but I'm not sure if I went too far or not. Thoughts?**

**Also, do you think China's appearance was suspicious? In my mental timeline, he would have visited Russia soon after England asked him for tea.  
**

**Continuity failure: It's not spring or summer in this story (for reasons that will become evident later). This is also the time sunflowers grow, so I really don't know how England got them. Magic? Greenhouses? Alternate dimensions? Cheerful insanity begets flowers (hence France's roses)? A conjurer's trick? I don't know. But I couldn't pass up the the possibility of the whole shebang on Russia's doorstep. Have you got any good excus- er, explanations we could use for it? Or should we just ignore this and go back to making England crazy? I'm cool with that.  
**

**This chapter's fun fact: The Tsarsky Kolokol, or Tsar Bell, is a 20 foot tall (6.14 m) bell, the largest in the world. The simile was originally going to be "bigger than the Tsar Bomba,"bigger than the Tsar Tank," or something similar to show the hidden danger, but I liked the idea of the **_**kol**_**-ing bell instead. **

**As in China's chapter, I used the romanized language. All translations are, sadly, from Google Translate. Since the limit of my Russian is 'vodka', there may be some things wrong. Please tell me if there are at least for China's chapter I had a few years of Chinese to rely on. Oh, and **_**chto**_** should mean 'what', and _Angliya _'England'. If there are any Russian speakers out there, I can add more in!  
**

***melodramatic announcer voice* Now what will England do? He's asked/assaulted all the Allies! Will he go after the Axis's secret tea stocks? A deal with a real devil? Or has he completely flipped into insanity? Tune in next time for more ENNNGLISSHH INSAAAANI-TEEAAAA!  
**


	7. The Inteapretation of Dreams

**A cup of tea each for SakuraMoriChan, Zeplerfer, and Electric Plum for guessing at least partially right about a certain nation in their reviews! (Er, be careful with that cuppa, England is on the warpath.) **

**Also, I found it amusing that nobody mentioned the Baltics. Those poor guys...after all, Poland never said he heard only **_**one**_** scream...but he never said he heard Lithuania scream either, so many different things could have happened in that scene. You should be glad I didn't put it in, there aren't ratings high enough for what happened there *nods seriously, straight-faced***

**Springirth Dale**: Thanks! I'm glad that my fail!poetry is entertaining - it's about time the silly stuff was useful!

**JuniperGentle**: And that is completelydeprived!England torturing him, too. (England voluntarily skipped out on tea that morning, if you'll recall, at which point Minty should have somehow held him down and forced some down his throat.) I don't think I'd even survive the experience.

I was very smug about that particular metaphor; that was some classic Pratchett-style-copying right there, let me tell you. :P

Why not! Go for it! (But of course this will have a happy ending...I'm not nearly cruel enough to deprive the poor dear permanently.)

*throws hands up in the air* Sure, why not!

I'll bet good tea Russia never thought that either. What a shock that realization must have been...

**vesana **x 2: Daaaaang, these are getting worse and worse (i.e. better and better), aren't they? That's it, you're promoted to Vice-President in charge of bad puns! I suppose I could call you...the Punmaster of Vice. *high-fives self*

The way I see it, no one has actually ever said "Why, yes, I *do* want to become one with you, Russia!" except Belarus and possibly Ukraine. _Nobody_, especially not someone like England, ever willingly agrees to that.

**yoong**: BWAHAHA! I DRINK YOUR FEAR!

...I admit, there may be a bit of the Whorf Effect going on in that chapter as well. So I do have _some_ reasons for what I do ^^

**Electric Plum**: I'm glad to have cheered you up with England's pain *laughs*

**SakuraMoriChan**: I may give hints, but such innocents as y'all will never be told the true extent of what happened in that scene. You want to sleep at night, don't you?

Sure, that explanation works too! Why not! ;P

**ncalkins**: Well, with a tea-deprived and insane England, who knows what might happen? :P I'll admit nothing!

**ThisIsTheCircus**: *shudders* happyandteadeprived!England may be more terrifying than Red England, and _that's_ saying something.

**AliceCrowleyTheFullMetalKitty**: The poor, poor man. Why is the world so intent on denying him his tea? What are your top two then?

**The Dangerous One**: Tell me about it! *shivers* Good guess, but not quite right :P

**Anon**: It's pretty sad when the possibly hallucinatory magical green aerial lepus is more trustworthy than the anthropomorphic personification of an entire country. And yes, of course America will see him! Because I enjoy England's tea-pain (*pun-five*), and it would be too delicious not to have a WTF moment from America about all this.

**I'm glad you all enjoyed Russia's pain! (I am such a sadist, but I don't care anymore. Bring on the fire, bring on the flame!)**

* * *

Handwriting slow, languid, uncaring:

England's Notes

**Results of Previous Expedition**: FAILURE…I think. I'm not…really sure. I remember deciding to go to Russia's house, and the next thing I knew I was back here with a small, torn, slightly singed bit of a cream-colored cloth, a drained teapot, and much less tea than I remember in the tea-tin. I swear, if those little mauve dragons had anything to do with this, I will *large inkblot, as if the pen rested on the paper for longer than usual* do something very ungentlemanly. _No one_ steals the British Empire's tea. For the present I have hidden the tea-tin even more cunningly than usual. 

**Next Expedition**: I haven't the least idea; I have the most perfectly awful headache right now and would very much prefer to just sit in my house the whole day. Surely I'll figure something out.

~o0O0o~

The next morning, England stared gloomily into his teacup as he pondered his situation. After the unanticipated withdrawal or robbery—he still hadn't decided—from his tea piggy-bank, his stores were getting dangerously low; he had to water down this cup of re-steeped leaves so much it was merely water with a slight dusky tint. What's worse, he had now gone to all the Allies with his little problem and came away with barely a cuppa to show for it, and that from _France_ of all people. Tomorrow, to his great relief, was the start of another week and he would be able to use his ration coupons to buy more tea.

He didn't known why he had bothered to go to America and Russia—those had been hopeless missions from the start. To attempt them nonetheless…perhaps the deprivation was already getting to him? He didn't feel any different yet, though, and he didn't think he was acting any different from normal either—after all, France had been his usual froggy self and he had reacted accordingly, the same went for America and his insults, and Russia…well he wasn't quite sure what had happened at Russia's place, but he'd ended up back at home again with no tea to show for it, so that had probably not turned out too different, either. No, he was probably just desperate, not too far gone yet. He chuckled nervously.

There was something niggling at the back of his mind, though, something about America and Russia, something similar between the two._ Something about a cold America, or a nice Russia…something about- something about- America's tinned rations and Russia's verbal tics…? Russia says "da?" altogether too much for my liking, is that it? And they call tinned foods "canned" in America…Canned-da? Can of da? What am I doing, this is ridicul—Canada! How could I have forgotten?_

Why hadn't he remembered him before now? How odd. Was it the first sign of whatever madness was coming? Whether it was or not, there was no time to lose. England raced to his telephone.

~o0O0o~

In Canada, all was dark and peaceful, quiet and cozy and calm. In Canada it was the twilight of the dawn, too late to be called night but far too early to be morning for sensible people. And in Canada's bed the nation and his polar bear slept, wrapped in quilts and furs and the wonderfully liberating belief that no one would interru—

The telephone on the bedside table rang like the death knell of sweet dreams everywhere.

An occupant of the bed growled as he was disturbed from his hibernation. At his side, Kumajiro simply rolled over and continued snoring softly.

Canada pawed the telephone off its stand and, holding it in the general vicinity of his head, slurred out something that might have been a greeting. "'lo?"

"Howay, Howay... Ah, bairn!"

Still mostly asleep, Canada spoke on reflex. "This better not be you, America, I don't care about the progress on the pigeon, bat, _or_ cat bombs—"

"Canada!" At the sound of his name for once, not America's, he jerked slightly more awake.

"England?" he asked cautiously, for although the voice was England's, the accent certainly was not.

"Thank heaven yee picked up, Ah divvent knaa what Aa'd hev dyun if…well, it's ne matter noo. Summink bad probablies. Noo, usually Ah divvent remember yee exist, but fre some reason Ahm feeling unusually sowber an' right proper the neet so Ah caal'd. Ah divvent knaa hoo much time I'll hev until Ah forget yee agyen, so I'll myek this quick, aye?"

"Are you all right? You sound really strange…"

"Weyaye man, whit de yeh think Ah am liek?" he shouted, indignant.

"England, I have no idea what you're—"

England's voice rolled over his soft tenor without a pause. Canada sighed. It seemed like some things never changed.

"Gandie, Ah knaa Ah divvent syah it enough, but me fowk an Ah are eternally grateful tha you're helping weh in the war, an Ahm so git proud of hoo you've grown up. Yeh a canny lad, an' ye've med me... But, please, listen man: Ahm rationing me brew reet noo an Ah think the deprivation is already affecting me in ways Ah haven't been able te figure oot yet. Frankly, Ah divvent knaa what horrible things might happen when Ah run oot, an Ah divvent want te knaa. Please, man, fre the love of God get me some brew. Ah knaa Ahm not one te ax fre assistance or even syah 'please' fre tha matter, but Canada, Ah git need yer help in this. I've tried everyone else an there's ne way Ahm asking yer Macam youngen again. You're me last hep."

The long train of words finally ended, Canada's eyelids sagging dangerously at this point. After an awkward pause Canada realized that he was supposed to contribute something to the conversation, another first in the annals of history. "Mmphf," he said, intelligently.

That seemed to be enough. England sighed with relief and continued "Gandie, I've got te gan, Can... Cana... whoever yee are. Thanks fre the help, an please, I'll see yee soon, aye?" And with that last enigmatic message, he hung up.

Canada stared blankly at the telephone as his sleep-fogged mind tried to figure out what the maple just happened. Was it some sort of code? England had spoken oddly but didn't sound any more drunk than usual. Canada hadn't been able to pick out much, but he's definitely heard his name and the word 'please' a few times. So…England had, for the first time in centuries, remembered not only that Canada existed but then called him in the middle of the night and said 'please' at him. And as far as Canada knew, though England knew every magic word known to man, he had never used that particular utterance, along with 'Thank you,' 'I'm sorry,' and 'You're right, America, France, my cooking _is_ terrible, and I'm glad you pointed it out to me.'

As the obvious answer came to him, Canada nodded slowly. The only logical explanation was that this was a dream. A dream brought on by that old bottle of maple syrup he'd found at the back of his cupboard the night before. It had looked a bit sketchy and Kumajiro had been dubious, but sugar was rationed these days and as a consequence maple syrup was more expensive and harder to find. Rationing sucked; he wondered vaguely how England was dealing with it. Resolving to throw the spoiled syrup away on the morrow, Canada smiled in relief and let his head slump back onto his snowy pillow.

"What strange dreams I have…" he mumbled into his polar bear's silky ruff.

"Wait, I think that was important," Kumajiro said, and Canada nodded, though not in agreement with the bear, but rather with his own thoughts. This just proved his point. His bear remembering who he was too? This was definitely a dream.

With that thought he slipped smoothly back to sleep, or as he preferred to see it, into other dreams.

* * *

**The American military really did invest in pigeon, bat, and cat bombs, but I won't go into them here. I've got rather an Flying Mint PlotBunny about unconventional weaponry, and if I ever write it I'll go into more detail there. Feel free to research on your own, it's some crazy/hilarious/horrible stuff.  
**

**ENGLAND'S FREAKY ACCENT is the Geordie Dialect from Oop North in England, this variation especially from around Newcastle-on-Tyne.**

**You should have been able to **_**mostly**_** follow along with what England was saying, but before you get on Canada's case for having no mapling idea what language he was speaking, wake up at four a.m. and listen to this song and try to figure out what he's saying: www . youtube . com / watch? v=utkMQJeiK50**

**Crazy, right?**

**TRANSLATION (provided by the wonderful, marvelous, even-better-than-tea greygreenwolf)**

1. Come on, come on... Ah, lad!

2. Thank heavens you picked up, I don't know what I'd have done if... Well, it doesn't matter now. Something bad, probably. Now, Usually I don't remember you exist, but for some reason I'm feeling unusually sober [Ah, hard to translate! It's kinda like clear headed though...] and good tonight, so I called. I don't know how much time I've got until I forget you again, so I'll make it quick, yes?

3. Of course, who do you think I am?

4. Look, I know I don't say it enough, but my people and I are eternally grateful that you're helping us in the war, and I'm very proud of how you've grown up. You're a good boy and you've made me... But please listen: I'm rationing tea right now and I think deprivation is already affecting me in ways I haven't been able to figure out yet. Frankly, I don't know what horrible things might happen if I run out, and I don't want to know. Please, for the love of God, get me some tea. I know I'm not one to ask for assistance or even say 'please' for that matter, but Canada, I really, really need your help in this. I've tried everyone else, and there's no way I'm asking your Macam [Term of abuse, specific to Newcastle. It's a way of referring to Sunderland, which is its rival in everything] brother. You're my last hope.

5. Look, I've got to go, Can... Cana... whoever you are. Thanks for the help, and please, I'll see you soon, yes?

**Again, thanks to the awesome greygreenwolf! Give them a hand, everybody! *claps loudly and obnoxiously* Any errors remaining are solely my property. They're mine! *clutches them to chest protectively* You can't have them, they're my mistakes!  
**

**O Canada, you finally got recognition in more ways than one, if only you were awake and England was remotely understandable!**

**Also, if you want to listen to a song that's **_**really**_** funny from a Hetalia perspective (especially if you're secretly pervy like me), look up "Canada's Really Big" by the Arrogant Worms. France pffffhonhonhonhon…**

**So, do you think Canada will figure it out? What do you think England will do next? I haven't hinted about this next chapter, but it's a logical path for him to try. Really, the illogical thing is that he hasn't tried it before now.  
**

**Also, are there any omake ideas you'd love to read? This fic still has plenty more to go, no worries, but I always love to hear your ideas :D  
**


	8. Taemonologie and The Necrotealecomnicon

**Many of my darling reviewers seemed to think England would turn up on a rather confused Canada's doorstep. It was a good thought, but no cigar; after all, England was already forgetting who Canada was by the end of their conversation. So, sadly, we will not (yet) see a tea-crazed England in Canada. Even more surprising, nobody guessed what he actually will be doing, though I heard plenty of great ideas of varying crack-osity!**

**SakuraMoriChan**: You and Kira ask a question terrifying in its implications. What will happen when England runs out of tea? What indeed. Suffice to say it is simultaneously hilarious and horrifying.

**KiraDiscordia**: Thank you! :D I can tell you with 100% conviction that absolutely nobody in the entire world expected England to hug Russia.

...also, my dapper octopus would love to meet your dapper Pikachu.^

**Letterbomb**: No way, I'm not One of Us or anything—I MEAN—it's not like it Ruined My Life or Vocabulary or anything! *guilty smile* ...I can't believe you would be sadistic enough to drink tea right in front of poor England like that. O_O And thanks! Really, to write him doesn't feel like work at all, but play.

**AliceCrowleyTheFullMetalKitty**: what an odd but complementary group you have~ For some reason neither China nor Japan have been very high on my list. They're so _normal_ compared to the weirdness of some of the other countries, y'know?

**Zeplerfer**: Amusingly enough I nearly forgot to include him as one of the Allies ^o^

The choice to use 'brew' and 'cuppa' for tea was cunningly suggested by greygreenwolf, just to make poor Canada even more confused.

What, England do anything logical? With his current state of mind? :P Hmm, I don't think I know those characters enough for full scenes, but who knows? There's plenty of omake left open...

**greygreenwolf **x 2: These days, whenever I think of the 'u' I remember that one fic where America says England is the u's bitch or something 'Ooo, spank me harder, u!'

...Ahem. The Deep South? How peculiar.

Thank you! I'd love to write some Discworld fanfiction one day, but I have not the courage. Someday, though...

H-Hey, gentlemen know deportment too! =. England eyebrows

Sure, I'll take that exc- explanation too! Why not!

Poor, poor Canada. If only he understood your weird language! ;P

It's about time Russia found out what it's like for the rest of the world! But being him, that may make him just do it more...

Aw, and it just stopped, didn't it. I'd send you some of our weather but it's actually acting sensible for once so you can't have it!

**imagination junkie**: Ah, but who says England will remember Canada again? As far as he knows he just called a random person. ;D

And thanks for the Red England review! Red England is only slightly more terrifying (to my mind) than the England Russia just met in A Wartime Necessity.

**Bird of Dreams**: Of course I did! is absolutely terrifying.

Thank you—and if you want to see so much historical accuracy it's scary, read Red England. That fic took waaay too much time to research.

**Electric Plum**: THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES! Or America's burgers, or France's hair products, or Austria's piano or...the possibilities are endless!

**Cat In The Fedora Hat**: NOOO NOT THE EXCLAMATION MARKS AND THE CAPS LOCK! I'm glad I've reduced you into near-incoherency)

**The Truth's Lie**: So _that's _what they never told us in school! I always knew there was something sketchy about my textbook… I can totally see that happening, but because of his tea deprivation he'll start telling Germany all about how America used to wet the bed and still has a stuffed bunny and… yeah. Germany won't be next, but he _will_ turn up eventually, at least a little bit!

**Sorry about this being a day later than anticipated; I saw the Avengers movie Saturday night and ended up reading far too much fanfiction for that rather than making sure this was ready to go ;P **

**In reward for that, this chapter is extra-long!**

* * *

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: FAILURE…? I think I called someone, but for some reason I can't quite recall who. I do hope it wasn't my PM, that would just be embarrassing beyond belief.

**Next Expedition**: It's noon now, so I just need to last the rest of today and tomorrow morning I'll be able to go down to the shops for the week's tea ration *large dark, damp blotch* Oh I do apologize, I've inadvertently drooled on you a bit.

…I'm talking to my notebook. O.O

Wait, what did I just write/draw there? What does that little squiggle even mean? It looks like some sort of hieroglyphic, I wonder what it could be…

It's probably nothing. I should go back to thinking about tea :D

…Oh bloody hell there's another one. O.o ANOTHER!

*many scribbled, illegible lines after this, with many more emoticons popping up like mushrooms*

**Addendum**: It's the next day. I went to the shops and got my leaves for the week and, with a teapot currently being drained with all due haste, I am feeling much more coherent. When I was making it I found myself stirring my teacup with my magic wand. This was…disconcerting, but it has given me a few ideas. What took me so long to try magic?

~o0O0o~

As he finished his last cup of the morning, a tad mournfully, England closed his notebook with finality. Picking up his wand, he went in search of Minty. As was her habit, she was sunning herself in the bright morning sunshine, grooming her long ears. She perked up at the sight of her friend.

"Hello, England! Are you feeling all right? You were acting a little strange yesterday, there's jam all over the garden gate…"

"Yes, Minty, I went to the shops this morning and got tea, so I'm feeling much more like normal now…er, all over the garden gate, you say? How peculiar…" He shook away the thought in favor of looking ahead. "Minty, I have another mission for you, if you're up to it."

She shot upright, ears ramrod-straight. "Ready for action, England!"

He smiled at his adorable little soldier. "Your magic is nature-based, is it not? It's not tea-growing season, but perhaps someone is drying and processing the leaves somewhere in the world?"

Minty began unconsciously nibbling on the edge of the table, a nervous habit of hers that appeared whenever she tried to think thoughts of more complexity past what she should have for lunch. "Um, my magic really only works on live plants, but I can sort of sense dead ones too…"

"Great! Could you go look for tea leaves? I'd be ever so grateful if you did."

She brightened. "Ooo, will you give me my favorite minty carrots if I do?"

He laughed the light chuckle that only his magical friends seemed to get from him. "Of course, of course, my brave little bunny! Now, shoo, off with you!" He gave her a last rub of the ears, and Minty zipped away with a short burst of magical sparkles.

_Minty might take a few hours to find leaves, and she might not be able to carry more than a few at once. In the meantime I should pursue other avenues of magic_. Minty was not the only one with magical skills, after all. It would be a poor day indeed when England wouldn't be able to perform a simple summoning skill.

In the basement, he donned his dark cloak that really had more to do with his love of dramatics than any actual magical assistance and turned to the tall bookshelf. It took him only a few minutes to find a few simple spells that might do the job.

Taking out his colored chalks and impressively dribbly candles, he drew the pentacle inside a circle on the basement/air raid shelter/hiding place from America and paperwork/magical laboratory's floor. With the electric lights off and the candles flickering warmly at all the magically significant points, he could almost believe it was a thousand years before and he was summoning hellhounds against France again. He sighed, smiling nostalgically, and turned to his spell book.

"Eyn-stiyn-jaymes-deen-broo-klyn-sgot-awyn-nyng-teem, day-vee-krok-et-pet-erpan-ell-vii-sprez-lee-dihz-neel-ahnd!"

**Whee-pop-zzz!**

Yet instead of a pile of a certain aromatic leaf, in his magic circle appeared...a small sapling. England stared at it uncomprehendingly. He would have understood if it was a tea bush, but no, it was an English oak, completely devoid of any tea-like properties whatsoever. This was certainly a puzzle.

Frowning, he looked back down at the spell book in his arms. Was there an error in the written spell? Did he mispronounce something? Everything looked fine and had sounded fine when he spoke. Perhaps if he tried again it would work properly this time. Magic was sometimes amazingly like electronics, after all.

**Whee-pop-zzz!**

Before he knew it he was knocked off his feet by a crashing wave of water summoned by the spell, and he was just barely fast enough to keep the book from the worst of the flood. Startled by the drenching onslaught and by the suddenness in which he was soaked, he just sat for a moment in shock.

"…sodding hell."

Unfortunately, without seeing the problem in the text of the spell itself, to diagnose the issue he'd have to find the common denominator in all this. Magic was not math, but it always made sense, even if it was a perverse, twisted sense. He'd just have to find out what that was. Somehow. But what pattern could be found in a sapling and a few gallons of ocean? He sighed. He'd have to cast the spell until he figured it out, then.

**Whee-pop-zzz!**

It was…a small pile of gravel. And that was it. _Rubble? A bunch of rocks? I haven't the slightest idea_. _It'd be best to try again, I suppose._

**Whee-pop-zzz!**

This time a disgusting squelch accompanied the arrival of a large mound of slimy white goop. It smelled overpoweringly of cheese, and something about it made England's well-honed, hair-trigger French senses sound an alarm. So: a soft, white French cheese. He was no cheese expert, especially for _French_ cheeses, so that didn't help much either. England frowned and tried the spell once more.

**Whee-pop-zzz!**

For a moment he almost thought nothing had appeared, but upon closer inspection there was indeed a very small occupant of the circle. He crouched to examine it. It looked like it was lead type from a printing press, and he flipped it over to see what letter, numeral, or symbol it was.

It was a 't'.

At that, everything began to make a sinister sort of sense, and he glared at the other products of his spell-casting. The sapling was obviously a _tree_, the salt water _sea_, the rubble was…yes, _scree_, and he'd eat a deep-fried hamburger covered in escargot if that detestably French cheese wasn't _brie_.

"Bloody hell! This is the absolute worst—." In a fit of temper, he threw a fireball at the brie with a satisfying _whoosh_ of flame. He couldn't stand French cheeses, or really, French anything, and his dark suspicions about the French were only reaffirmed by the fact that this brie was somehow keeping him from his tea. However it very rapidly became obvious he was not functioning at his topmost mental capabilities, because the unpleasant consequences of this action soon became visible. Or, rather, smellable. Now the cellar stank of salty, damp, charbroiled French cheese. And since that particular aroma was far too similar to the overripe scent of France's unwashed monkey feet for his liking, his mood could have been compared to a pre-Pompeii Vesuvius.

With a muffled growl he turned back to his spell books. He went over the spell multiple times, checking and rechecking, minutely altering the wording of this phrase and that, rearranging the grammar into a structure that in his expert opinion would most definitely summon tea this time. Heart filled with the faintest spark of optimism, he tried again.

After successive pentagrams appeared full of peas, bees, rupees (which he quickly stuffed into his wallet), keys, ghee, goatees, and fleas, he decided that in his expert opinion this particular spell was utter bollocks. As he gazed at the un-tea-like results of his morning, England's internal monologue was suffused with a dry cynicism that could have dehydrated the Atlantic. _It's practically a…potpourri…of things that rhyme with 'tea.' Could this possibly get more ridiculous?_ _Of course, now that I've posed such a question it will inevitably become so, won't it. Oh joy._

Sure enough, despite choosing to use a completely different spell this time, it all went wrong. Evidently someone somewhere was enjoying his predicament immensely, because after England cast the spell, a man in a high-collared houppelande robe holding a large sheet of ornately-decorated parchment appeared in the circle. A _familiar_ man.

Well. England hadn't expected to see _that_ particular nose in person ever again. "King Henry? The Fifth? Is that you?"

"England! What on God's green earth is happening?" He was very confused indeed to be blaspheming so readily. It took a good many drinks to get him doing so usually, if England recalled correctly. He might not be; it had been almost five hundred years since he last saw him.

England massaged tired eyes, shoulders slumping. "I'll, ah, explain in a moment, if you don't mind. Firstly, Your Majesty, what is it that you're holding there?"

He blinked in surprise and looked down, squinting at the paper. "It seems to be…a detailing of my lineage? I could have sworn I was not holding this just a moment ago."

England narrowed his eyes in thought. "So this time it's a _family_ _tree_, held by King _Henry_ the Fifth." He frowned. "But…why _you_ of all the Henrys? I have had quite a few, after all…"

King Henry stared at him in blank incomprehension. "What are you going on about, England? A minute ago I was in in the palace library, and now I am with you in this strangely damp basement."

England, deep in contemplation, ignored his former liege. "It doesn't make—oh. I _see_." He began rubbing his temples as though his problems would vanish if he applied enough pressure. "King Henry the Fifth. King Henry _V_."

Trembling with fury, England slowly raised a tightly clenched fist and shook it wildly at the empty air, shouting at the world that mocked him so. "_Really?_ Henry _V?_ That's just pathetic! It's not a 'vee' you imbecile, it's a _five!_ Roman lettering! Bloody hell, I don't even know who I'm talking to!" Gesticulating violently, he began pacing back and forth, rant in full swing. "What, is America in charge of all the magic in the world these days? Only he would be idiotic enough to think the five is a vee! This has got to be his fault somehow; I just need to figure out how—!"

As his bewildered ex-monarch split his gaze between his infuriated country and the nasty-smelling, scorched sludge that was all that remained of the brie, he wondered if someone had let England near a kitchen again. He personally had never known England's cooking to transport his royalty around without their consent, but with his 'special' brand of baking a king could never be sure.

Ranting having become purely reflexive at this point, England concluded that all magic was a waste of time, America was an absolute tosser, he would never drink again, and, triumphantly, that this entire mess was France's fault and once he got his hands around that slimy neck again and throttled that frog the world would go back to how it was supposed to be.

Some time later, England ended up peaceably knocking his head against the ancient door, moaning quietly about how if he could just have some tea everything would make sense again.

Long used to his nation's antics, King Henry V stared with puzzlement, uneasiness, and suspicion at the occult paraphernalia cluttering the basement, especially at the pentagram chalked around his feet. "Is this witchcraft? What is happening here, England? I command you to tell me!"

_The time-space continuum can go bugger itself_, resolved England, turning bloodshot eyes to the king. _It can go be timey-wimey and wibbly-wobbly and fix everything if it needs to. He's my former boss; I can't just send him back without a proper explanation! And at this point, I just don't care anymore. I just want my bloody tea._

"This is the future, Your Majesty."

"…I beg your pardon?"

"You've been accidentally transported into the future. Not with witchcraft—ahaha, frankly the very thought is ridiculous!—but with science, in a sort of, er, ship that goes up and down the river of time." This was a complete and utter fabrication, of course, but England didn't particularly want to be burnt at the stake. Again. "It's almost halfway through the twentieth century right now."

"Oh." King Henry the Fifth of England visibly rolled that concept around in his mind in the hope that it would fit into place somewhere, like a puzzle piece that stubbornly refused to fit despite how you just _knew_ it had to fit there to complete the bloody impressionistic rosebushes.

Something must have clicked, because his brow cleared slightly and he said something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "ah…just like that Doctor chap said."

With surprising composure for someone who had a moment ago been told he was five hundred years in the future, he turned back to England. "You've never lied to me before, England, so I suppose I must believe you. You do appear a few years older, after all. Just understand, if this is all some sort of bizarre prank…" his voice trailed off meaningfully as his eyes narrowed.

England drew himself up indignantly. "I should think not, my lord! I'm not Amer- some nations I could name."

"You are certainly not, whoever they are! England was and will always be far better." King Henry relaxed somewhat and eyed England thoughtfully. "You look rather ill, England. Are the French still revolting? After five hundred years under English rule, I'd expect they'd have calmed down."

England chuckled. "They're as revolting and froggy as always, Your Majesty."

King Henry gave him a Look.

England shifted uncomfortably and began speaking rapidly. "But, ah, to answer your actual question, the French are, in a manner of speaking, not to put too fine of a point on it, perhaps, might be—"

The royal Look heightened further. _How it is that all my monarchs had that expression? I'd say it was genetic, except a good many of them weren't even slightly related to each other._

"—not under my rule anymore. They haven't been in centuries."

His face darkened like the stormy skies over Agincourt, thick eyebrows furrowing into creases sharp enough to shoot from a longbow.

"_Indeed_. Anything else you'd like to tell me?"

England licked lips that desperately needed the soothing touch of tea. Best to get all the bad news over with quickly, then.

"Sir, as you noted yourself, I am indeed at a state of war."

"And it is with France?"

"Er. No. Rather, it is against Germany and his allies. And, ah, I might happen to be…allied with France."

The frigidity of the pause that followed could have kept of America's ice cream frozen for years.

And then King Henry took a deep breath and growled, "Rest assured I am going to have _Words_ with your past self. We'll see about this nonsense about allying with France! And losing my new conquests in France, too! That's just laziness! And another thing—"

England winced. He'd always hated Words from royals. He felt a rush of sympathy for his younger self. Poor blighter wouldn't have any idea what was happening when his liege lord suddenly started ranting at him. _There had to be some way I can fix this…_ His eyes alighted on a thick jar on a high shelf and he had the flash of an idea. But how could he get to the Amnesia Dust—for that was what it was—if King Henry was shouting in his face?

Just then Minty fluttered back in the room, tired-looking and empty-pawed. "I'm sorry, England!" she chirped sadly. "I couldn't find tea anywhere…" She had told the truth to England earlier; she could indeed sense dead plants. But by 'dead plants' she meant, say, a tree in the process of falling after a lumberjack had cut through it. Not so much tea leaves that had been dead and drying for months.

King Henry was still on his own rant against congenial Anglo-Gallic relations, oblivious to Minty even if he could see her. England sent her a desperate look, emphatically pointing with a large eyebrow from Minty to the Amnesia Dust.

"What do you mean, England?" she said, fluttering over to the cabinet across the circle from England. "You want one of these?"

He nodded very slightly, still the perfect picture of attention for his raging ex-monarch.

"But which one?" Minty mused out loud. "Eyebrow Growth Serum? Happily Ever After Potion? Frog Poison? Git Treats? One of the others?"

England resisted the urge to roll his eyes and sigh. Minty was just a rabbit, after all; she couldn't be expected be the smartest green flying mammal around. He decided to give her some help, so as soon as King Henry took a breath he interjected, "Please, Your Majesty, can't you just _forget_ this whole incident?" He shot Minty a meaningful glance.

King Henry sputtered for a moment, then began roaring twice as loud as before. "Forget? _Forget?_ How could I forget this? There must be something I can do to make sure this doesn't happen again! This is all—"

Unfortunately Minty still seemed confused. "I don't think I understand..." she pondered for a moment, then brightened. "Oh, I get it! The Amnesia Dust! Is that right?"

England nodded slightly again and quirked a brow expressively.

"I'll bring it to you, England!" Tiny wings thrumming, fluffy body straining, Minty slowly wobbled into the air and toward England, the heavy canvas bag clutched in her soft paws. What she was doing was not so much flight as a barely-controlled extended fall, and England realized in horror what was about to happen just a second before it inevitably did.

The bag slipped from Minty's grasp and fell, hitting King Henry's skull with a solid thump. He stood for a moment more, forefinger raised and mouth open in interrupted lecture, before his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

England stared at this newest development for a minute in silence, the only sound Minty's quiet "whoops." He then leapt into action and, with a muttered warning about French peasant girls and a flash of light, sent King Henry the Fifth back to his proper time period.

Once his erstwhile boss was gone, England sat with a whooshing sigh. "Well, Minty, that's one way to induce amnesia." He hoped he hadn't mucked up the past too much with this. He was finding it difficult to care at this point, though. After expending all that magic that day, his temples were throbbing with weariness and a cutting need for a good cuppa with milk. But he couldn't have more tea today; he was far over his daily tea budget already.

"Did I do well, England? Did I?" Minty jumped excitedly into his arms.

He scratched behind her long ears in exactly the way she loved. "Yes, you did splendidly, Minty. It was a little unconventional, but it got the job done all right. Have I ever told you you're the best flying mint bunny a country could hope for?"

She giggled, then yawned. "Of course I am! I'm the _only_ flying mint bunny. I sure am tired after flying all over the world, England…if you don't mind I think I'll take a nap now…" and within a minute she was asleep in the crook of his elbow. England sighed and wondered what he was supposed to do now. His black magic seemed to be completely useless when it came to summoning tea. _It seems determined to deny me, for whatever reason; even if I changed the spell completely again, cleansed everything, even moved to a different location and used different materials, I have a dark suspicion I would just end up with Marie Curie with a petri dish or something equally absurd. _

His eyes fell on a cabinet of bottles far different from his magical potions, and a small, weary spark of hope returned to him. There was one type of drink and one type of magic he hadn't tried yet, and frankly he was surprised it had taken this long for him to try it out.

Ha, this time he even had an excuse. It was all for a good cause: tea. And what better cause was there? _Life, liberty, and proper-tea, ahaha. _

England walked over, collected a large armful of bottles, and trudged upstairs. After placing Minty in her bed with a minty carrot and lining up the bottles meticulously on the dining room table, he wrote out a short message on a piece of paper, which he left in front of him. He then turned his attention to the many bottles. And proceeded to get utterly soused.

~o0O0o~

He woke late the next morning, a toga still hanging off of him, to find himself similarly draped over a pile of furniture and blankets. With a groan he raised his aching head to stare around blearily, trying to reconstruct what happened last night to bring him to this state.

_Why did I do this? I swear I'll never drink again if the light would just shut up and leave me alone…it even has an American accent, sodding light…wait, what's this?_

Clutched in his left hand was the drawstring of a large sack, and in his right was a crumpled paper. He smoothed out the paper and squinted to read its contents.

Britannia Angel, it read in England's handwriting, If it would not inconvenience you overmuch, I would most grateful if you could find it in your heart to set aside some of your valuable time to endeavor-

This was scribbled out, and below it was written, in a slightly more desperate hand, Britannia Angel: Please, please, please, summon me tea. You know what kind I like, we drink it all the time, after all. Believe me when I say I am eternally grateful for this. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, England.

Below this message was another in a different hand. The handwriting was, if England had to pick a word, angelic. It read: My dear England; Of course I am always happy to help out such a good friend! In the bag is enough tea to last you for a good while, I think! And I've heard this kind is very good for you, too! Wonderful talking to you! I hope your hangover passes quickly! Britannia Angel! ;D

Cracking a smile for the first time since what felt like the Bronze Age, England set upon like bag like a ravenous wolf, tearing it open to be greeted by…a terribly, _horribly_ familiar scent of dusty barn. _Nononono, not China's 'old man tea' oh god no 'good for me' my arse surely this is some sort of horrible joke? yes it must be please let it be I JUST WANT SOME TEA DAMN IT!_

But as England pawed through the bag of 'tea' it soon became all too evident that there was none to be found, only the abysmal travesty that was China's special brew.

In despair England slumped down again in his uncomfortable perch. Apparently his drunk self was not only gifted with nigh-unlimited magical power, but was also a nigh-unlimited magical power-wielding, emoticon-using, overly-cheerful, absolute and utter _arsehole_.

He distantly wondered, as another fireball all-too-readily left his fingertips and the sound of hysterical laughter filled the room, if it was possible to kill an angel.

* * *

**You all got what England's spell was, didn't you? I couldn't resist Be glad I didn't put it in the International Phonetic Alphabet ;P**

**A cup of tea for whoever knows the two works this chapter's title is based off of! And, yes, I did make a reference to Shrek 2 with the potions, I admit it!**

**Huh, somehow most of that chapter ended up being an anti-French tirade, didn't it? Don't worry, it's not favoritism! England will be doing America in the next chapt—I MEAN—England will be doing **_**the same**_** to America, yes, that's it, that was just a non-Freudian Slip, don't mind me! *laughs nervously, eyes darting around; flees***

**Fun fact for this chapter: Tea is grown as far north as Pembrokeshire in Great Britain! **

**Also: I nearly put in a bit with a banshee and the actual scene with Marie Curie. That would have been interesting, since she was a Polish immigrant to France. Imagine what she would talk like! Sadly, I took out both of these because it was getting too long.**

**As to why England didn't just walk over, get the Amnesia Dust, toss some on Henry V (who now wouldn't remember the disrespect), and send him back to the past: Despite having some tea that morning, he still isn't getting enough and is not thinking too clearly, which is not something you want when messing around with black magic, let me tell you. He should be glad **_**he**_** wasn't transmuted into tea, though if I said that to him he'd probably just look at me blankly and say 'What are you talking about, that sounds wonderful! To become one with my beloved forever and forever and forever and…'**

**HISTORICAL NOTES**

"**Life, liberty, and property."**** English philosopher and philosopher who first thought of and described such ideas as **_**tabula rasa, **_**government with the consent of the governed, and the human rights of life, liberty, and property. These would eventually become pivotal in not just American government but all over the world. Also, -tea puns are too much fun.**

**A houppelande**** is a type of robe with a long, full body and flaring sleeves, fashionably both by women and men during that time period. You still see houppelande today, believe it or not! Ever seen a graduation gown or legal robes? Yup, you guessed it, they're houppelande.**

**King Henry V**** (****16 September 1386 31 August 1422 Was the House of Lancaster monarch of England from 1413 until his death at the age of 35 (of dysentery, yuck). Despite his short reign he restarted the Hundred Year's War and was very successful militarily in France. One particularly famous clash was during the Battle of Agincourt, where, due to heavy mud and the awesomeness of longbows, the French lost up to 10,000 soldiers, 40% of their nobility, and the English lost…about 112 soldiers. (This is one of the many reasons why I think England's rain is a milder cousin of General Winter. That and the Channel.) Henry successfully stomped all over quite a bit of France and, with the Treaty of Troyes, was to marry mad King Charles VI's daughter Catherine of Valois and their children would be heirs to both the English and French thrones. It was around this time I'm having Henry V be kidnapped into the future.**

**Henry V died and his son, the creatively-named Henry VI, was declared king of both England and France despite the fighting still going on. Despite the Franco-Scottish forces arraigned against them (always the Scots!), the English were doing pretty well. Until a young lady named Joan came along.**

**Also, look up the "Battle of the Herrings," which places rather high in my book for "Awesomest Military Conflict Name," following closely behind "The War of Jenkin's Ear,"The Battle of Porkchop Hill," and various other confrontations.**

**Now what do you think will happen? **


	9. The Spy Who Loved Tea

**Another long chapter for y'all! This one is soooo bad you have no idea *rubs hands together evilly***

**UPDATE: I'm so sorry for forgetting! Thanks to JuniperGentle, PirateTree, and Lilyflower1987 for giving me their thoughts on where this chapter should go; even if I didn't end up using them, they led me on to other ideas. So thanks, guys!  
**

**Also, today is my birthday! I'm thiiiiiis many years old now! *holds up fingers*  
**

**Anon**: *chuckles* If I knew I would get these sorts of reactions from a throwaway Who reference, I'd have put in more! I'm glad you're enjoying yourself/spasming. They're practically the same, after all. :P

**imagination junkie**: Of course he burned it, it's French! England likes burning French things; just ask Joan of Arc! *cricket cricket* Oh come on, that wasn't even a Helen Keller or dead baby joke, _someone_ must have thought it funny! *cricket cricket* _Fine. _-_-

The only webcomic in which Britannia Angel appears (the only canon I could find) is that England got drunk and then somehow became the Angel with wand and toga. I'm choosing to believe the toga just appears. Like it's magic or something ^.^

**ncalkins**: To make it worse~ "Yo, England, there was this old weird leafy tea stuff in your cabinets, I got rid of it for you! That tea'll never bother you again! =DDDD"

Also, I keep seeing your avatar pic and thinking it's Okami.

**SakuraMoriChan**: It's my least/most favorite too since it was SO FLIPPIN SCARY. Minty tries her best...I sorta think of her like a young America, failing but being adorable with it.

**DragonProtector09**: How mad was England after America's little tea party? In a word: apoplectic. If he pulled the same stunt right now, when England's rationing? In a word: apocalyptic.

**Kat**: A part of _me_ is sad too; I only thought of the tea-titles (or 'teatles') after I was two postings in. D: Oh well! I'm glad you're enjoying this ^.^

**Lilyflower1987**: Poor, poor man/country/anthropomorphic personification. And you know it's just gonna get worse!

**greygreenwolf**: It's more like I see Discworld as this pinnacle of perfection and completion that one such as I cannot meddle with, so I don't get any plot bunnies or anything. Oh well, perhaps someday.

**Daemonologie is correct! *dingdingding*! Written by King James VI about the danger witches posed to society. Like how they obsessively pursue tea to the extent of summoning one of his predecessors to the future...though that **_**particular**_** instance of witchcraft is probably not covered in the book ^^**

**As for the other, not quite; **_**you're **_**thinking of the **_**Necronomnicon **_**(lit. the book of the names of the dead), but **_**I'm **_**thinking of the parody **_**Necrotelecomnicon **_**from Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett (lit. the book of phone numbers of the dead).**

**AliceCrowleyTheFullMetalKitty**: To my disappointment, all three of those links ended up with a "This video is not available :/ " !

**Cat In The Fedora Hat**: Can you _imagine _what his house smells like right now? Seawater, scorched cheese, burnt barn, and alcohol. And all that on top of a hangover. Yikes!

**The Dangerous One**: It's just so _wrong_. England is a grumpy, cynical, sarcastic tsundere. England does not _do _cheery. No wonder Russia was scared *shakes head*

**LovelyToMeetYou**: Well, I suppose I'll just have to appease you then ^^ Here you go, a new chapter!

**vesana**: Psh, exams suck tea leaves.

Thank you! :D One of the things that makes me sad is that some people seem to think humor writing is just about making random stuff happen randomly. I would argue that a large part of humorous writing is setting up a completely logical background and support so that when you _do_ make random stuff happen it contrasts strongly with the logic, and _that's _what people perceive as funny. Hmph. *rant over*

BECAUSE I'M PRUSSIA IN DISGUISE KESESESESE! At first I wasn't even going to have an actual spell included, but then I thought of the "Dumble-dora" spell and We Didn't Start the Fire just popped into my mind. Sad/Awesome thing about me: I could have written that whole song into this...without having to look up the lyrics.

It's been too long since I read that play *makes note to include that line in that chapter in a revision someday* And I read that in Sean Connery's voice haha.

Tearful, Angsty, Really Depressing, In-depth Silliness?

**Springirth Dale**: Thanks! My poor, poor rhyming dictionary has been much abused for this fic. ^^

**Wow, **_**four **_** of you specifically mentioned the Doctor Who references! *makes note* '**_**cram... in as much...Who...as...possible...'**_

**BEFORE/WHILE READING THIS CHAPTER: I would advise listening to (1) **_**Rule Britannia**_**, and (2) ****The Best of Bond...James Bond**** CD (or as many Bond theme songs you can find). The lyrics may explain a few things, and it will also make things far more epic.**

**To make sure nobody's confused: The bold, italicized, centered text are parts of songs running through England's mind. They are from various Bond movie theme songs and from **_**Rule Britannia**_**, which, if it isn't England's **_**personal **_**theme song, I will personally eat Oddjob's hat.**

**Most of the lyrics from the songs remain intact, but I have changed a few words for my own evil purposes. ;{D -my evil goatee face.**

* * *

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: FAILED BECAUSE OF THE SINGULAR ARSEHOLE KNOWN AS BRITANNIA ANGEL. MY BETTER HALF MY ARSE. *a long, rambling paragraph of smudged, half-coherent obsceni-tea follows this, and has been excluded for the sake of brevi-tea and clari-tea.*

**Next Expedition**: I've run out of magical options and checked with all four of the other Allies. Now it's time to raid the Axis. Who first? Italy would be easy to invade, but I get the feeling he's only slightly more likely to have tea than America is. He's more of a coffee-and-wine type, right? 

For some reason I seem to have difficulty putting 'Germany' and 'tea' in the same thought. 'Germany' and 'beer', yes, 'Germany' and 'arsehole' all too easily, but 'Germany' and 'tea'…not so much. It's probably be best to try just about everywhere else before trying to steal from Germany's probably nonexistent stock.

And then there's Japan…who I really should have thought of first. He'd have tea, of course, and not just China's 'tea' but the real stuff. Off to Japan, then…

~o0O0o~

England took the day off to plan. Yes, to plan his next move, not recover from his hangover or anything. Because he didn't have one, and even if he did have one a measly little hangover certainly wouldn't be enough to keep the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland down.

He sighed as he leafed through the results of his labor. Quite a lot of precious paper had been taken up by profanity directed at Britannia Angel, and at several points his mind had wandered and drawings of America riding unicorns into giant teacups filled the pages. He had managed to stay sane long enough to sketch down a few thoughts on which of the Axis he would target first, though, the lines curving around penciled sparkles and steam and Nantucket.

At the bottom of the last page, two words were circled so many times the pencil had nearly torn through the cheap paper: JAPAN and TEA.

~o0O0o~

Japan would be first of the Axis, as he was the one to most certainly have tea. This mission would just be a good deal more dangerous than visiting one of the Allies. But an agent of England's caliber wouldn't have too much trouble, he was sure. In fact, just to make it challenging he'd arranged to come on a day when he'd been sure all three of the Axis were in Japan. Otherwise it just wouldn't be sporting.

The next morning he dressed in his best, a snappy suit with a bow tie so sharply creased he could kill a man with it. Literally.

As he dressed a tune had run through his mind, a brassy, jazzy song he could not remember hearing before. He hummed along, murmuring the lyrics absently.

_**He's suave and he's smooth**_

He flashed the mirror his most charming smile as he slicked back his hair, which for once in his life had decided to stay neat and instead of acting like it was full of enough static to power a doomsday device. With the gel his hair looked darker, and he approved of this for reasons he wasn't sure he could articulate.

_**And he can sooth you like vanilla**_

Lastly he had tucked his elegant pistol with a compass and a GPS in the stock into the hidden holster under his jacket, invisible to any onlooker.

_**The gentleman's a killer**_

"I look very…Double-O Ninja," he told Minty, who was playing with the cunningly crafted explosive yarn balls (which were good for dealing with evil white cats). _Double-O Ninja? What does that even mean? I don't know, but I rather like the sound of it._

A few hours later he was in Japan without a hair out of place, strolling down the cobblestones with a flippant air and debonair walk. It wasn't long before he sighted Japan's mansion a mile or so on, and he homed in on it like a man-eating shark sensing blood. Or like an England sensing tea.

_Ah, tea…_ he was temporarily distracted with thoughts of that most wonderful of drinks and drugs. He could imagine it now, his most prized china in hand and his teapot on the table, stirring in milk…that was how he took it, of course. Milk, not sugar. Not shaken, but stirred. _What kind of bloody idiot would shake their tea, anyway?_

With an effort he extracted himself from such teasome thoughts. He'd get the tea soon enough, if he concentrated and fulfilled his mission to his utmost. He was the best and most experienced agent by far in in His Majesty's Secret Service, and if anyone could find the goods and get away with it, it would be England. He hummed abstractedly to himself as he watched his surroundings for danger.

_**I know how to hurt, I know how to heal...**_

_**I know what to show, and what to conceal...**_

_**I know when to talk, and I know when to touch...**_

_**People have died from wanting tea too much!**_

_**All the tea is not enough…**_

He swaggered down Japan's streets, perfectly at ease despite being in enemy territory. What reason had he to fear? He looked like every other young, white, elegantly dressed young man on the road, of which there were…well, none, but that was beside the point.

Incognito wasn't exactly his style, and this wasn't Italy, after all; he couldn't just add an Italian curl and blend right in. He ignored all the envious eyes he could feel on him—he couldn't help it if he looked fabulous. And he did.

…_**thou shalt flourish, shalt flourish great and free**_

_**The dread and envy of them all…**_

A few of the local young ladies were giggling and whispering among themselves as they watched him. He changed his path; for young ladies he could spare a moment or two.

He bowed over the hand of the most beautiful, planting a delicate kiss on the back. It was probably a breach in Japanese etiquette, but it didn't look as though the ladies minded. Of course they didn't; England's levels of dashing sexiness went beyond cultural barriers for both the fairer and manlier sexes went. This wasn't hubris on his part, he was sure—in his line of work one traveled all over the world, and he'd had countless interested eyes pointed his way over the years.

In flawless Japanese, he purred "It is an honor to meet such a cherry blossom as you, my dear. May I ask your name?"

She smiled sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. "Sixty-Nine Blessings, honorable sir. And what is yours?"

"Of course that's your name, I should have guessed. My name's Kirkland…Arthur Kirkland. I'd love to stay and…chat, but unfortunately I have business to attend to. Perhaps you'd care to entertain me at a later time?"

She fluttered her eyelashes coyly. "For one such as you, honorable sir, I might…entertain the idea."

"Hopefully my business will not detain me overlong— I'd hate to have to refrain from such entertainment."

And with that he tossed her a roguish wink and sauntered off.

_**Any woman he wants, he'll get**_

_**He'll break any heart without regret**_

_**His days of asking are all gone**_

_**His fight goes on and on and on…**_

England, humming, neared Japan's house and eyed it thoughtfully. He wasn't one for long, intricate plans—they usually ended up failing anyway—so he usually relied on his prodigious improvisation skills. With such a simple extraction mission as this, though, he'd had a plan for hours now, had it since he'd boarded his plane.

_Ah, the flight here. They always ask the same questions, don't they?_

England's pilot had fidgeted in his seat, sending him odd glances during the entire flight. Finally he spoke up. "If I may ask, sir, why is someone of your rank here and in such clothes? If this is for Great Britain's military, what kind of mission would have you do _that_?"

"No, no, this isn't for them." the nation had said, flashing a sardonic smile, "This is for England." And with that he flicked a parachute onto his back and leapt out of the plane, leaving the man even more confused than before.

England smiled at the memory as he climbed the last few steps. His was a simple plan: get in, get tea, get out, drink tea. This was a good vantage point, too; he could see the whole property without being seen himself. He flicked his eyes over the scene, expertly analyzing the situation. He was in luck; the Axis were all present, but they weren't in the house, where he was anticipated the tea to be.

_**The nations, not so blest as thee…**_

The Axis stood in the training field behind Japan's elegant house, their cars neatly (or messily, if it was Italy) lined up along the edge, a small two-seater aircraft at the end of miniature runway ready to carry Germany and Italy back to Europe after their meeting was done. Germany stood before his allies like a drill sergeant from hell, roaring about something or other Italy in his brainlessness did. England couldn't even make out words from this distance, but he felt his guess was fairly educated on the matter. He shook his head pityingly. Germany certainly had a license to drill, but surely he knew at this point that trying to make Italy into a soldier was like trying to force France into celibacy.

Japan stood next to Italy, sipping something that steamed gently. England found himself involuntarily salivating, almost smelling the tea from here. At the sight of Japan drinking the beverage of the gods so casually, England made a noise that could have come from a rabid animal. _Look at that bastard, drinking tea like it was something- something ordinary! We'll see how _he_ likes it when _he_'s reduced to begging for a single leaf!_

Chuckling to himself in a way more reminiscent of his pirate years than of the modern day, England slipped into Japan's house, a confident smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

~o0O0o~

On the other side of the world in his seaside villa, Spain woke up from his siesta with the sudden urge to grab his battleax and hide in the basement. Not being one to ignore gut feelings, he grabbed his copy of Don Teaxote and dashed downstairs, throwing suspicious looks toward the harbor all the while.

~o0O0o~

Still snickering quietly to himself, England snuck down the hallways to the room he had identified as Japan's kitchen. Through the open crack of the door, he could see a large bin labeled with the Japanese character for tea, and he had to swallow repeatedly make sure he didn't drool all over his nice suit. Ungentlemanly, that. Now all he needed to do was nip in, grab all the tea he could, and nip out again, with no one the wiser and England immeasurably happier.

Except…for the small problem that from the noises he heard, there was someone in Japan's kitchen. Someone who wasn't the Axis, since he could still hear the three of them outside. Eyes narrowed, slim gun upraised before him, England edged around the corner slowly, carefully, creeping forward until he saw the mystery person—

…_**meeting you with a view to a kill…**_

—and nearly dropped his gun in surprise. And he had had such great hopes for this mission, too…

"_America?_"

Sure enough, a rather guilty-looking America stood in front of a large array of empty dishes, fork in hand and noodles hanging out of his mouth. "Engwan'!" he squawked, mouth full, and swallowed hastily. He stared at England for a moment in apparent shock . "I was just, ah, gathering intelligence! What are you- what are you- you can't just walk in here like that!"

"We're in enemy territory, America! Do you expect me to knock?" England hissed.

"No, I expect you to—hey, is that apple pie?" He leapt for the covered dish.

"Apple pie in Japan? That's ridiculous! How can you think—"

America thrust the dish in his face triumphantly. "Look, it is _so_ apple pie! I'd know that awesomely patriotic scent anywhere!"

England stumbled back from the offending pastry. "Get that sugar-laden monstrosity out of my face, git. Don't you think it's a little suspicious that _Japan_ would have an _apple pie_ in his kitchen? It's probably booby-trapped!"

"No way! Perverting the sanctity of apple pie like that is physically impossible—it'd be like- like calling football gay or plucking a bald eagle or stripping Lady Liberty and having her give Abe and Uncle Sam a lap dance! It's just impossible!

England made a mental note of the lattermost idea for the next time America annoyed him too much. It was about time the damn hussy finally showed her true French origins. "American football _is_ gay, have you seen how tight those pants are?"

"Football is the goddamn _manliest_ sport on the planet, and I'll show you the truth of the matter; isn't there a saying that the proof of pie's in the eating?"

"Football _is_ manly the way the rest of the world plays it, and _don't eat that you idiot_—"

"What, with those little shorts you guys wear? And I'll eat what I like!" America huffed indignantly, and began happily stuffing his pie hole with pie. "See, England? Perfectly normal and perfectly, well, perfect! I nev' knew Japa' wuz shuch a…good…cooook…" Eyes now unfocused and confused, America looked around in bemusement. "Why'sh da lights all…squig-ig-ig-Iggy what'shappenin'…?" And with that his eyelids drooped fully shut and, like a falling redwood, he slowly toppled to the ground.

England sighed and crouched to check his pulse, reassured to find it just slower than normal, not absent entirely. _Not that I was concerned or anything, the great pillock's harder to kill than a bloody rhino._ Standing again, England sent the unconscious America a look so flat it could have been glued to a hat and used to decapitate people. _Now what am I supposed to do? As much as I'd like to, I can't just leave the idiot for the Axis to find. I'll drag his fat arse somewhere he can't cause too much trouble, then come back for the tea._ Nodding to himself, he tucked away his gun in the hidden holster and bent again, throwing a heavy American arm over his shoulders and heaving the both of them upright with a grunt of effort. The git was far too heavy, the arm around England's shoulders too muscular, the head nestled in the crook of his neck too comfortable, warm, sweet breath ghosting across his neck…England abruptly shook himself away from such bizarre thoughts. He definitely needed tea soon, he decided, as he was evidently already feeling the effects of its scarcity. Who knows what strange emotions he might start hallucinating if he didn't get some before long?

With such sobering contemplations he began half-carrying, half-dragging America toward the kitchen door, only to freeze in place when he heard the distinctive sounds of skipping feet coming down the hallway.

"Ve, ve, ve!" the owner of the feet sang to himself as the footsteps approached.

England's eyes widened, and he thrust himself and the git into a corner not visible from the hall. _Don't come in the kitchen, don't come in the kitchen, for once in your life, Italy, don't be focused on food—!_

But his luck could indeed get worse, for with an exuberant "PAAASTAAA!" Italy burst into the kitchen. At the sight of the other two occupants of the room, Italy then froze, screamed, predictably, "GERRRMANYYY! ENGLAND IS HERE AND HE'S SCAARYYY!" and burst _out_ of the kitchen, yelling his head off as he made what could euphemistically be called a strategic retreat.

England swore viciously under his breath and turned to grab the bin of tea and run like the blazes. He was halfway to the door when he made the mistake of looking back at America, propped against the table where he left him. He looked at his ally, then back to the tea. He looked at his ally. He looked back to the tea. Sadly, America wasn't tea, didn't even smell like tea, but…

The sheer magnitude of England's next obscenity was such that half a world away a paranoid Switzerland dashed into Liechtenstein's room and clapped his hands over her innocent ears. Hastily stuffing a pocket with tea leaves, England heaved America over his shoulder and stumbled out of the room under his weight. Hearing upraised voices not far behind him, England grit his teeth and ran faster, wishing he had a free hand to draw his gun. His planned method of exiting the country wasn't near or fast enough—he'd have to find another escape.

And there was one not so far away, just across the lawn, the setting sun glinting red off its bright wings—

Japan suddenly appeared before him, katana in hand and at England's throat, and England was barely able to avoid skewering himself by stumbling back, cursing Japan's ninja skills all the while. With his momentum gone, it was just a moment before Germany, hair disarrayed, caught up, chest heaving but gun steady. Italy appeared on England's other side, his own firearm extended but trembling.

_**I've seen angels fall from blinding heights**_

_**And you yourself are nothing so divine**_

_**Just next in line…**_

_Hmm, he's shaking like a leaf…like a tea leaf…tea…_ England swiftly shook himself out of such thoughts. Now was not the time to go mad from tea deprivation. He clenched his jaw and faced the Axis squarely.

"Do you expect me to talk?"

Germany snorted, keeping his gun trained on America's head. "I'd expect you to lie if you did. No, for now, England, we merely expect you to comply. Drop the gun, put down America and back away from him slowly. Keep your hands visible."

"Wha…wha'sh happnin?" America slurred, trying to keep his eyes open.

"Nothing of importance, America, the Axis is just about to kill us, that's all. Now be a good lad and stay still, all right?"

"M'kay."

_He really must be out of it if he's taking orders from _me_,_ England mused. _I wonder where I can get whatever drug Japan used…it would certainly make meetings quieter and shorter, to be sure. Ah well, I suppose that would be unethical or some such rot. I never get to have any fun these days…_

England tossed away the gun with an elegant flip and unhurriedly set the groggy America back on his unsteady feet…only to swiftly knock away Italy's unsteady gun and grab him in a headlock, the Italian's own pistol pointed at his head. Germany started forward too late to stop him and now stood, teeth bared, fist white-knuckled around the gun at America's head.

_**Still more majestic shalt thou rise**_

_**More dreadful from each foreign stroke**_

_**More dreadful, dreadful from each foreign stroke**_

"Now, Germany, Japan, America and I will be leaving now," England said. "Unless you want Italy's latest pasta to be his last? His life, ahah, to be _udon_? The concept is not _farfalle_-fetched."

Germany didn't respond.

"Oh, come now. _Penne_ for your thoughts?"

"You'll never leave alive," Germany finally growled.

England grinned. "Oh, my German friend, there's no point in living if you can't feel alive. Don't you know that?"

Japan frowned. "This stand-off cannot end well for any nation here. What do you say, Mr. England?" He gestured toward the two hostages. "Live and let live?"

England's smirk widened. "Oh no, Japan. Live and let _die_."

Japan made a conciliatory gesture, speaking in low, soothing tones. "But even if you do manage to get away, Mr. England, how will you get home? Do you expect to walk?"

_Japan always was a clever bugger…but he's not quite clever enough. _For England could see Japan's logical words were just a distraction, could see Germany tensing for action out of the corner of his eye, ready to jump as soon as England's attention was diverted. England slipped his hand in his pocket, already regretting the necessity of the sin he was about to commit.

"No, Japan," England said with a cocky grin, "I expect to _fly—!_" And he threw the powdery remains of his glorious tea into Japan's face, shoved a screeching Italy into Germany's surprised arms, and as Japan began rubbing desperately at his eyes and Germany's gun went off, grabbed the still-dazed America and ran like the dickens for the two-seater.

Hopping into the seat and starting the engine, England swiftly got the little plane off the ground and in the air, bullets flying all around them yet miraculously missing. Once they were safely in the air, England looked back at the three still grounded.

"There's your little Italy for you, Germany!" England called back at the infuriated country, who had a terrified Italy wrapped around him like an octopussy. "There he is, unharmed, from England with love!" And with that parting shot he flew off into the sunset, smirking all the while.

_**And Britannia Angel sang this strain:**_

_**Rule Britannia!**_

_**Britannia rule the skies**_

_**Britons always always always will be spies**_

~o0O0o~

On the flight back, America was suspiciously, uncharacteristically silent. He didn't even clamor to be the one to pilot the plane as England had rather anticipated. England kept glancing back at him, definitely not worried he might have been hit by a stray bullet, not in the least, but every time he did America just sat there, staring at him with the oddest look on his face.

"Why are you acting so bloody peculiar, America? You had better not be injured after all the trouble I went to," England said irritably.

But instead of making sense like a decent person, America just breathed "…it's just like I've dreamed it, again and again…"

"What?"

"The suit, the bow tie, the gun, the accent, the eyebrows…it's the same as I…so _awesome_."

Though he still didn't understand what America was rambling on about and though the boy was quite clearly still out of it, England couldn't help a small flush of surprised pleasure at the words. When was the last time America had complimented him? He certainly couldn't remember.

His chest was feeling uncomfortably warm and fizzy. That _thing_ was happening again, blast it. He definitely needed tea. _Speaking of tea_…he reached in his pocket to find, as he feared, only the tiniest crumpled remnants of the beautiful leaf.

_**Tea is for forever,**_

_**It's all I need to please me,**_

_**It can stimulate and tease me,**_

_**It won't leave in the night,**_

_**I've no fear that it might desert me...**_

Compliment or not, he was still at dangerous tea levels and it was all the fault of America. As usual. If he hadn't been stuffing his face in Japan's kitchen England would have been able to succeed in his mission and gone home happily tea-ful. But no; instead he had to save America's sorry arse yet again, betray his sweet darling and leave it in the clutches of the Axis's grasping teacup. Knowing Germany, he'd increase security drastically at all of their homes, making it well-nigh impossible for even an agent of England's considerable prowess to infiltrate. He might very well have to, in the end, if he wished to drink a good cuppa again. England rubbed his eyebrows wearily.

Before long, America got over the last remnants of the drug and his atypical silence ended. He began chattering about nothing in particular, and England sighed in disappointment at the breaking of the peace, and certainly not in relief that all was back to normal.

~o0O0o~

Yet as he sat in his armchair that evening, cup of watery, heavily re-steeped tea in hand, England found it difficult to summon up enthusiasm for his plan of raiding Germany and Italy's homes on the morrow. Germany really only drank beer and for all he knew Italy drank tomato sauce. Hell, _Prussia_ might be at Germany's house, and who knew what Prussia might do with the knowledge that England would do absolutely anything for a cuppa these days. With Prussia he'd be forced to do _exactly_ that anything.

Perhaps England would return, could somehow sneak back into Japan's house…? He sighed. His chances were looking slimmer than ever. _But what other options do I have, really? I've tried everything else and everything else has failed. Repeatedly. Like a penguin trying to knit. Like an amoeba trying to tap dance. Like a thing- like a thing- failing. Like this simile._

…_Damn I need tea._

But he would permit himself no more tea tonight, so with a rub to weary eyes he went to bed. Perhaps it would all somehow find a way to work out.

* * *

**This chapter: also known as CRAM IN AS MANY BOND ALLUSIONS AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. You're welcome. Not.**

**There was perhaps a **_**smidgen **_**of foreshadowing in one of the lyrics. Care to take a guess?**

**Did anyone catch all the bajillion James Bond allusions, particularly the three iterations of a certain scene from **_**Goldfinger**_**? If you did...well, you win the internet, and if you can name them all I'll...I'll do something you want, I suppose. I won't ever have to, though, since y'all'll never get them all! BAHAHAHA! Seriously, don't even try, the reviews would get sooo long O~O**

**I'm not some crazy fangirl of the series (unlike America is heheheh), so the allusions are not **_**too **_**obscure. They're mostly just plays on famous lines, movie titles, theme song lyrics, and Bond tropes. But you still won't win!**

**Speaking of Bond tropes, guess what part America and Italy played during the stand-off scene? The romantic leads, of course, the damsels in distress! If America had been more conscious during the whole affair, he's probably have started whining about how he didn't want to be the designated Bond/Kirkland Girl ^^ Ah, I do love my USUKUS. **

**Old Spice commercial? A Christmas Story? *blinks innocently* None of that here! I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about!**

**Also, I had a ton of even **_**worse**_** pun-pasta-ic wordplay. Be very glad I didn't put them all in.**

**I seem to really like the idea of America really liking the idea of Bond!England. I believe I mentioned something on the subject in ****Red England****, too...**

**Fun fact for this chapter: For a while I considered having America be IndianaJones!America (because those two are just too awesome together), but I couldn't figure out a good and logical way to do so. And then I had the idea of America sneaking over to pig out in Japan's kitchen and, well, it just sort of grew from there. If you want to take the historical perspective, America was seizing Japan's supply ships. But if you're reading this particular fic for **_**history**_**, well...**


	10. DSM Tea

**Hey, all! I had a marvelous birthday, and America gave me a stinkin' adorable England keychain! I'm already plotting how to get them back on their birthday…**

**vesana**: H-Hey, that's what I do! To both! What are you implying?

That was actually one of my alternate titles for that chapter (great minds, y'know other, worse ones include 'The Man With The Golden Teacup' and 'Octopuss-tea'.

I know, right? I bet they're what England dreams about, slow-motion climbing out of a giant teacup, rivulets of tea trickling down as hair is flipped back elegantly over the shoulder..._honhonhonhon_

**AliceCrowleyTheFullMetalKitty**: Ah, well. The Japan chapter was a necessity, in my book; there was no way there _wasn't_ going to be one!

**Ladyofthelake13**: What, you didn't love me before? I'm hurt! :P

If only, if only...sadly an England completely without tea for long would probably spontaneously combust, and I do like my England not as badly burnt as his cooking.

**Electric Plum**: Whaaaa and you call yourself an American? Go right now and watch Goldfinger!

My response to that comic, in order:

:)

:D

...

o.o

o~O

...what is this I don't even...

**yoong**: Don't worry, it's intentional: Bond!England has a GPS because the Bonds always have ridiculously advanced (and sometimes just ridiculous) technology. I agree, if I have to pick favorites, last chapter and Russia's are probably my top two. I admit, when I had the idea for all the rhyme spells I giggled maniacally. Especially with the 't' XD

**01blackcat02**: Thanks! :D Hmm, I'm trying to stick with canon when I can, and as far as I know there aren't any Devil!Englands in canon. Also, I think we got some nice evil!England in Russia's chapter. So no, probably not...unless you have an idea with Britannia Devil that I could turn into an omake? I'm still taking requests for those.

**The Dangerous One**: Y'know, I didn't think of that...but now that I think about it it *does* work really well!

**Winter's Warmth** x a bajillion: I think the PM thinks the whole 'surviving the German blitzkrieg' thing is more important that getting tea. Weird, huh? :P

In my head!canon, Wales is almost perpetually sheepish, just for the sake of puns.

It amuses me that so many people have told me that Chapter 3 reflects their own experiences with coffee; when I wrote it I thought I was showing how unhinged England is by making it super overdramatic and overwrought! But apparently coffee really is like that *edges away from nearby coffee mug*

As far as England's tea-deprived mind is concerned, the possibilities of tea are far more important than any petty thousands of years of near constant conflict and antagonism ^o^ And I do like teasing with stuff like France's fate and USUKUS possibilities, the anxiety of my readers is only slightly less amusing than that of England!

Me too, actually! When Russia reappears in a chapter or two I'll hint at what might have happened, but leaving it a bit of a mystery is more terrifying than any Lovecraftian horror I might dream up.

**Anyway, this is a big chapter in more ways than one! Would you believe it took me something like six hours to type it all? And that's not including all the time thinking of ideas or outlining, either…but it's worth it. Oh how it's worth it.**

**With this word count, this fic is now officially longer than **_**Red England**_**! …Holy cow…**

* * *

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: MISSION UNSUCCESSFUL FOR NOW, though I still have the oddest feeling that I should at this moment be shagging a sexy-but-dangerous Russian spy with an uncanny resemblance to Belarus.

**Next Expedition**: There's an Allied meeting in a few days that I absolutely _must_ have sufficient tea supplies for; the only reason I'm ever able to get through the blasted things is with a full teacup constantly in hand. And there's no way in heaven or hell that I'll show weakness before those bastards by not appearing at my very best and sanest.

I suppose on the merrow I'll have to have to have to have to plan how I will steel den Tee von Deutschland. Wenn er—

—Was hab ich geschrieben? Sprech ich schon wieder deutsch? Scheiße.

…Ich werd jetzt schlafen.

~o0O0o~

England woke the next morning from pleasant dreams. Very pleasant indeed; he could practically taste the dream-tea on his tongue. His mind bobbed slowly upwards out of the warm dark fog of unconsciousness, sentience gradually resolving itself into familiar crisp lines and hard edges. The morning sunlight golden through still-closed eyelids, he yawned and licked his lips…which also somehow tasted of tea. And why was he sitting, not lying down?

Bemused and still half-asleep, England opened his eyes to see not the worn cloth of his bedspread as he expected but instead the worn wood of his kitchen table. _How peculiar_, he thought muzzily, and tried to figure out why his kitchen table was apparently on his bed.

He licked his lips to again taste the lingering, aromatic tang of tea. Why wasn't it fading with the rest of the fluttering remains of his dreams?

Unless…it wasn't a dream. Unless the tea was real.

At that thought a shot of liquid hope burst into his veins, thrusting him into wakefulness with a leap of his heart. But as soon as the next realization hit, that selfsame heart then proceeded to leap off the nearest cliff, burst into flame halfway down, and fall into a pit of ravenous piranhas, screaming _nooooooooo_ the whole time.

Because that realization consisted of the thought that while he had most definitely gone to sleep in his bed the night before, he was currently slumped at his kitchen table, curled protectively around a certain tea-tin. A certain _empty_ tea-tin. A certain empty, _licked clean_ tea-tin.

He had no more tea. _No more tea_, and the words echoed through his mind like the collapse of civilization.

And with what sanity remained to him, he had only one thought:

_Oh…bollocks._

~o0O0o~

Minty approached England's house, humming her usual cheerful song. She had been out and about doing…_rabbit things_ that really nobody needed to know about, and was now returning to check up on her dear friend. In the past few weeks things had gotten a bit strange at England's, so she'd tried to be there more often to give the poor man her support.

The first sign something was not quite right was the piercing whistle she heard as she entered via the kitchen door. It came from the kettle on the stovetop, and Minty could tell the water was almost boiled dry. It had been whistling for quite a while, if she was any judge.

The second thing she noticed were the strange piles of leaves arranged carefully all over the kitchen. They were all divided into different piles by species, she could see, but she hadn't the faintest idea why England had chosen to do so.

The third strange thing Minty noticed—and she wondered why she had not noticed it before now—was the large puddle of…well, if she was being charitable she'd call it 'liquid' on the kitchen floor. It was a pale, iridescent cream color, and for some reason whenever she looked away from it she caught something _moving_ in its depths out of the corner of her eye. Evidently England had been cooking again.

Under the whistle she could hear England's voice, so she followed it into its source. He sat in the parlor, sipping from an empty teacup, apparently having an engrossing conversation with the empty chair on the other side of the table.

"Yes, you have to sneak up on the little buggers—excuse my French—with a coal shovel, in my considerable experience."

He paused as if to hear an invisible occupant of the chair speak, and chuckled politely.

"Of course, back in those days we had all sorts of mauls and such to deal with them. Ate them, too."

He paused again before shaking his head ruefully, taking another sip from the blatantly empty cup.

"Yes, hopefully it'll never come to that in my Isles! We're not _that_ far gone yet."

"England, who are you talking to?" Minty asked. But for some reason England didn't seem to hear her.

"Oh, really? I'm terribly sorry for keeping you, Norm. Thanks again for fixing that leaky faucet of mine, it's been a bother for weeks now."

He rose and shook hands with the air, seemingly unaware of Minty's worried questions and prods, and escorted the empty air to the door.

"Thanks again, Norm!" he called, waving a farewell. He then turned and came back to the table, where he began clearing away the supposedly dirty dishes. As he did so he hummed a familiar tune, so familiar Minty had trouble placing it at first. After a moment, though, she realized what it was and relaxed somewhat; it was _God Save the King_, England always quietly sang it to himself when he washed the dishes.

The seeming of normalcy lasted right up until he started singing it, for the lyrics were not as Minty remembered them _at all_.

"Høyt sverger Norges mann

Slavnomu dolgi dni

An Alpenhöh'n.

Fühl in des Thrones Glanz

Land of the pilgrims' pride

Förent med folk och land.

Freudvoll zum Streit!"

That did it. Minty knew she wasn't the brightest bunny in the book, but she knew this was beyond wrong. The tune was most definitely _God Save the King_ but she had heard something that sounded suspiciously like German in there a few times, and she _knew_ that line about pilgrims was from America's cheap knockoff.

Something was very wrong, and Minty remembered England's words not so many days before: _"Do you see this bag?...I'd like you to keep it safe for me, if you would. I want you to give this to me if I ever run out of tea and start acting very strangely, all right?"_

If this wasn't 'very strange,' Minty didn't know what was. It was up to Minty the one and only Flying Mint Bunny to Save The Day! She darted out of the house on fleet wings, noble, heroic choruses already echoing through her mind. Now if only she could remember where she hid the stuff...

~o0O0o~

England, on the other hand, was enjoying himself thoroughly. It hadn't very fun at first, as a few minutes of crazed motion would be followed by long stretches of slumping over on the couch and plaintively asking the little mauve dragons why the tea was gone, but it had gotten better.

It had begun with the spoons. Sitting there. Mocking him. It hadn't taken long before he had them all counted and aligned in shining silver rows all over the house. The pencils had been next, sharpened and sharpened down so far England was convinced if he sharpened any more he would beat America to splitting the atom. He had briefly considered going over and sharpening them in the ungrateful git's face just for spite, or France's, or better yet, Germany's, before he had a far more brilliant idea. Soberly placing the pencils down on his desk, he dashed out to the garden and began digging, chuckling darkly to himself the entire time. If his calculations were correct—and of course they were, England was always right—China would never see it coming. Imagine his surprise when England burst out the ground on China's own land and sharpened his pencils at him! It would serve him right for denying England his rightful tea.

England could see it now, China's eyes wide in horror and capitulation, begging for mercy from the mighty British Empire once again.

And England would smirk, throw his red cloak over his shoulder in a dramatic swirl, and purr "Well, China? What will it be: tea and cake…or _death_?"

Tea…England's eyes glazed over at the very idea, and he found the shovel dropping from his hands and his feet walking towards the shed. He found his old fishing net there, to his pleasure, and it didn't take long for him to collect a suitable quantity of last Autumn's brown leaves and dump them in the fishpond. After allowing the leaves the proper time to soak, he strained them out with the fishnet and eyed the remaining liquid thoughtfully. He didn't have enough milk, but he was sure he could make do this once.

He remained more than a little puzzled for quite a while after tasting the concoction and finding it lacking. Why hadn't it worked? He had performed all the rituals correctly, he was sure; perhaps a sacrifice of some sort was required? Or perhaps—ah, he knew now. He hadn't used the correct type of leaf!

He smiled and looked around his garden. There were quite a lot of different kinds of plants here, he could tell already. It would probably be for the best if he moved everything into the kitchen; he wanted to go about this scientifically, after all. England was nothing if not logical.

A few hours later he was feeling a great deal saner. He had one of his people over for tea that afternoon, a lovely chap named Norm, a plumber from Surrey who was worried about the badger infestation in his basement. Ever the good host, England advised him on the problem and made Norm his best scones to take home.

Singing to himself, England then wandered off to play with the young America with adorable little rabbit ears, vaguely wondering when the tea would start to wear off.

He spent the next four hours curled up in a quilt under his bed with the conviction that his eyebrows were caterpillars in the process of transforming into beautiful butterflies.

The next day or so passed in this fashion. And what a fashion it was.

It was not long after England discovered, to his great delight, his inkwell and the uninspired cream canvas of his walls that he paused, stained finger still upraised.

"I know you're there," he said curtly, spinning to face the empty room. "Yes, you. No, don't try to hide, I'm well aware of your presence, thank you."

He frowned, thick brows knitting together in a scowl familiar to every nation, and snapped "What I want to know is where you got the idea that it was perfectly fine to come in and- and- _snoop_ like this! Completely unforgiveable! And there are some English in with you, too! I'm disappointed; frankly, I thought my people were better mannered."

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "Stop trying to sidle away, I can very well see you. Well? Aren't you going to say anything for yourself?"

There was apparently no answer, and this seemed to upset him even more. His eyes narrowed, scowl deepening to Mariana Trench depths. "Ah, I see now. Your leader is an American. I should have known, only one of _his_ would be so rude as to follow me around and prate on about my doings! Well, if _she _won't act like a decent person, perhaps one of the others will.

"How about you?" And England turned, bright green eyes meeting your own with a clashing shock. "Well?"

_ This is not happening, _you thought_. There is no way a fictional character is talking to me. I'm obviously suffering some sort of delusion brought on by lack of tea; if nothing else this rather amusing story has shown me the dangers of its absence. _You nodded to yourself and went to get another cupful, twirling your mustache thoughtfully.

The narrator rolled her eyes. **Sheesh, there's no need for all this, England! If it freaks ya out that much, sure, I'll talk to you.**

"Oh, _now _you speak! Tell me, Ordinary Punter or whatever ridiculous name you call yourself, what gave you the right to follow me around and record what I do, eh? America's Constitution is far too silly in some places, but I'm bloody sure there isn't anything in it about doing something like this to a citizen of the British Empire, especially _the_ British Empire."

**Actually, England, we kinda thought you couldn't see us and—**

"And you think _that_ gave you the right to whatever you pleased?"

The narrator lied through her teeth. **No, no, of course not, everyone just really wanted to know how you were doing! We were worried about the whole tea thing and wanted to help but we're not really here in a physical sense so we couldn't give you any tea!**

**So we were just here to sorta give you support! In spirit, y'know?**

Some of the tension eased out of his shoulders. "Your grammar was absolutely dreadful, but I suppose it's rather…nice…to have a few companions in this ordeal of mine—not that I care whether you're here or anything! I don't give a…" he trailed off mid-sentence, apparently distracted. He stared off at something in the distance only he could see before shaking his head briskly and returning to his artwork on the wall and his ready inkwell.

**Phew, it seems like his momentary awareness of the fourth wall has faded. **

**Sorry for the interruptions! Let's go back to watching England go out of his mind, shall we? I'll get the popcorn! **The narrator put up her feet, crunching happily as England finished the next drawing with a flourish.

Later that afternoon, after he couldn't find the longbow he could have sworn he had placed in the attic, England was more than a little disappointed; he had seen an aurochs eating his rosebushes and was eager to show it just what happened when one messed with Albion's precious roses. He had brightened, though, when an idea struck him, and it was only a half an hour later that he stalked the mighty beast through his garden, bow of elastic bands and half an old wagon wheel with arrows of chopsticks and shark teeth in hand.

He ate well that night.

Upon hearing the air sirens late at night he built himself a fort of books and fruit cakes from Christmases past, which were so dense by this point they were probably more impervious to cannon fire than granite. He'd been building fortifications for nigh on two thousand years now, so he'd gotten pretty damn good at it, if he did say so himself. If he'd had a fort like this when France had come a-calling in 1066, then the froggy bastard would never have been able to conquer him. Stocked with enough scones to last—in his experienced opinion—well through the next French invasion, he sat smugly in his castle, crafting maces out of fruit cake and curtain rods.

After a night spent plotting how to invade the Netherlands, he was distracted by a piece of fluff floating in the bright morning sunshine. It necessitated the use of his best spy skills to avoid detection, but he eventually caught it, pouncing like the striking lion that was his emblem. Flushed with victory and panting from the chase, his eye caught something shiny and he wandered off to look for the Holy Grail again.

An indeterminate time later England was on an expedition to rediscover the lost continent of Atlantis in his bathroom cabinet when he happened across his cutthroat shaving razor. Quest derailed by the sight of the light glinting sullenly off its wicked edge, he gazed at it a moment before exchanging a thoughtful look with the man on the other side of the looking-glass.

On his face a slow, twisted, strange, _wrong_ perversion of a smile stretched like an overextended rubber band, and like an overextended rubber band something deep in England horribly, inevitably…snapped.

He raised the razor and began to slice.

It was only a few minutes later that he was sagged over the edge of the sink. He hadn't expected it to be so…messy. Surely there was a more dignified way of going about something as momentous as this? Special tools, perhaps?

There was no denying it: he felt odd after doing it and was feeling progressively emptier and lacking by the minute, but he stood by his decision. He felt a twinge of sadness at what he had done, but in the end it was better for everyone, really. Surely they would see that.

Besides, the artist in him couldn't help but appreciate the asymmetrical effect created by having only one eyebrow.

~o0O0o~

It could not be said that England could not find ways to entertain himself. He spent a good hour contemplating the wondrous intricacies of a half-brick he found in the garden.

Somehow as he was tailoring himself an elegant ballroom gown suitable for a conqueror like himself he managed to tangle himself in embroidery thread, but that was quite all right because he was a spider and spiders made webs.

Hours later, he was busy cleaning every inch of the bathtub with his toothbrush and a frying pan in order to dissuade Belgium from joining the Pickled Herring Conspiracy when he began to feel rather tired and ready for a quick kip. He had worked hard that day, he noted with approval. He deserved a bit of a rest. So, content, he closed his eyes and slipped off.

He awoke an indefinite time later, still hung upside down over the lip of the bath, now with the added addition of a tremendously irritating crick in his neck. What had woken him? Someone was talking in a high-pitched squeak, and the voice seemed to be emanating from the green blur by his head.

Focusing took a palpable effort, but he soon saw what it was. A teacup, flapping its wings to stay aloft, hovered worriedly over him. A guardian teacup angel? How odd, a green teacup. He wasn't about to say no to something that obviously holy, so when it pressed something into his hands, he obediently took it and opened the parcel. This truly must be a saintly teacup, for in the bag was that most precious of leaves. Tea.

Not even bothering with water, much less cup and saucer, inside of thirty seconds the tea leaves were practically inhaled.

After this England blinked slowly and for a long moment just stared, eyes unfocused, mouth slack before clarity snapped into his eyes with an almost audible click and the babbling entering his ears resolved into words.

"—and I was so worried because there was no one there and that's just crazy, who talks to people that aren't there? So then I flew off and—"

"Minty?" he said, finally recognizing his savior. She leapt into his arms, squirming joyfully.

"Oh, England, you're all better! I'm so happy! You were acting strange so I went and got that tea like you told me to keep for you but then I couldn't remember where I put it I swear I think I have some squirrel blood in me somewhere you know how forgetful I can get! I hid it so well even I couldn't find it and I was worried I wouldn't find it in time for your meeting thing but I finally found it in that one burrow-nest, you know the one, by the stream with the little kink in it and the lovely—"

England cut in quickly. "Wait, what did you say about a meeting?"

"That Allied meeting of yours? You mentioned it a few days ago, I think you'll be a little late but it's okay, just tell them the story!" She beamed at him.

Suddenly panicky, England dashed to the nearest clock to find himself already a half-hour late. He ran for the door, shouting "Thanks Minty but I must go now farewell!" on the way, barely remembering his shoes before sprinting out.

Minty hovered anxiously at the door, hoping England would realize soon that he was wearing his underpants on his head.

Perhaps he wasn't all better after all.

* * *

**Many thanks to countless friends, relatives, and random people on the street I asked for ideas for completelycrazy!England. If you see the idea(s) you gave me in this, consider yourself heartily thanked; this wouldn't be nearly as crazy as it is without it! Also many thanks to my own mind, which apparently acts like teadeprived!England when it's really late at night and I had too much homework.**

**Anyone get any deja-vu vibes from the beginning of this chapter and the beginning of the fic? Anyone? …all right, it's just me.**

**GERMAN TRANSLATION: Update: Ninja Lady Jae has very helpfully fixed all my errors for me. It should be natural and correct now! Thanks, NLJ! Any remaining mistakes are fully my own.  
**

**-den Tee von Deutschland / the tea of Germany**

**-Wenn er / If he(meant to be the beginnings of 'If he even has any.')**

**-Was hab ich geschrieben? ****Sprech ich schon wieder deutsch? ****Scheiße**. / What did I just write? Am I speaking in German again?** Shit (see, he even swears with characteristic German obscenities^^)**

**-...Ich werd jetzt schlafen. / ...I'm going to sleep now.**

**ENGLAND'S FUNKY SONG**

**This was basically an excuse for me to show something historical that amuses me: **_**God Save the King**_** was the first song to be used as a national anthem (though the Netherlands' is older), and its success caused a lot of bandwagon-jumping by other countries. Of course, instead of creating their own melody they just stole the tune and slapped on their own lyrics. Most of them, unsurprisingly, ended up being abandoned a few decades later in favor of tunes more in line with the actual country and less British. In my head!canon I imagine England was simultaneously smug that they were all copying **_**him**_** and annoyed that they were stealing **_**his**_** song. So the possibility of him singing **_**their**_** lyrics on **_**his **_**song is pretty stinkin' unlikely. For sane England, anyway.**

**In what England sings in this strange chapter, each line is from a different country's copied anthem. After each line is the translation, the country of origin, and the name of the song.**

1 Høyt sverger Norges mann"Loudly swear men of Norway from Norway/ _Kongesangen_[I thought this amusing considering Norway's silent personality]

2 Slavnomu dolgi dni"To the glorious one, long days from Russia/ _Molitva Russkikh_)

3 An Alpenhöh'n. (On Alpine heights, Liechtenstein/ _Oben am jungen Rhein _(at that point in time called _Oben am deutschen Rhein_)

4 Fühl in des Thrones Glanz Feel in the throne's glow from the German Empire _Heil dir im Siegerkranz_)

5 Land of the pilgrims' pride (from the USA/ _America_ (_My Country 'Tis of Thee_[In my head!canon England is mostly annoyed (and ever so slightly complimented) that America stole the tunes of many of his songs for his own patriotic ends; he also famously did it with _The Star-Spangled Banner_, the national anthem)

6 Förent med folk och land. (United with people and land/country Sweden _Bevare Gud vår Kung_)

7 Freudvoll zum Streit! (Going to battle joyously! /Switzerland_, Rufst du mein Vaterland _(this is the German version, the French version is unsurprisingly less martial [I thought this, too, amusing, considering Switzerland's aggressively neutral personality.]

**If you got the Eddie Izzard reference, you win one (1) hug from me! My Comedy and Improv professor grew up in his hometown! True story.**

**If you're wondering what England was drawing, don't worry, all will be revealed…**

**Whenever I try to write 'Mariana Trench' it always ends up as 'Marinara Trench' somehow. Must be the Italian in me.**

**I had the idea for the razor scene in the middle of class, and may I tell you my infamous reputation in that class has only been magnified by the explosive cackling that accompanied the idea…What, you didn't really think I'd put in some sort of suicide attempt, did you? Sheesh, talk about mood whiplash…**

**Minty's character: I sort of envision her as a smaller, fuzzier, more absent-minded cross between young!America (and a bit of his hero complex) and Italy. It helps that in the English dub her accent is American^**

**Aurochs****: an enormous, prehistoric wild cow. Most modern, Western cattle were domesticated from them. The longbow would probably have been anachronistic, but I love longbow!England too much to exclude him from the festivities**

**You'll note that the only times you see England's actual italicized thoughts is when he's still at least slightly on tea. I didn't want to leave you all gibbering by showing his actual thoughts during his insane times. **

**And if the series of events seems a little choppy, it's- it's completely intentional! Yes! It's meant to reflect England's own perception of time! *wipes away nervous sweat***

**Oh, and if y'all want to know why he didn't get into more trouble with his old souvenirs and weaponry, most of the old, potentially dangerous stuff had been moved away to safer homes less likely to get bombed at the beginning of the Blitz. This is his London home, which he's had so long it still has a big garden.**

**Fun fact: When I first planned this chapter, this was the only word I had: 'Craaaaaaaazytime!' Guess what the next chapter had? 'More Craaaaaaaazytime!' You're welcome ;D**

**JUST TO WARN YOU ALL: You wanna know what happens to me when you read what I write and don't review? **_**This **_***points to England with underpants on head***** is what happens to me when you don't review *tears up* I'm sure you don't want this to happen to **_**me**_** too, right?**

***big blue American puppy-dog eyes look at you pleadingly* Pwease weview?**


	11. Tea Wealth of Nations

**I have finally changed the title of this fic! If only dashes were permitted... Anyway, thanks to the anon Kat who suggested it!**

**And my apologies for how long the periods between these chapters are getting; exams happen to the best of us, I'm afraid…**

**JuniperGentle***nods soberly* Logic. I has it.

*gives Minty a minty carrot* Who's a good bunny? You are! *scritches ears*

*chuckles* I love messing with people like that; I'll bet very few saw it coming! Original idea credit goes to PirateTree, though I can't claim it _all _for myself.

And...er...some of those things I also may have done myself...I- I REGRET NOTHING.

I was initially not quite happy with him using half a wagon wheel like that, but I couldn't think of a better material so I kept it in. But your thought makes me see it in much a better and funnier light! *stores idea in pocket universe*

I'm glad you think so; I've been trying to keep things strictly in the lighthearted realm of the Rule of Funny throughout without getting so silly that what happens to him has no meaning. So thanks! That's what I was going for~~

Moooooore Craaaaazytiiiiiiime! *runs around the room waving arms like limp noodles*

**SakuraMoriChan**: Death! I- I mean, cake! It's a good thing the fourth wall awareness was only temporary; can you imagine a Red England knowing there's a whole other world out there to conquer? o-o

Originally I was having England think he himself was metamorphosing into a beautiful butterfly, but then my crazy, sleep-deprived imagination remembered my simile a few chapters back about wooly caterpillars and, well, the rest was history!

**imagination junkie** (or some evil yet complimentary anon committing identity theft I admit, there was much inane, whacked-out-on-sleep-deprivation giggling going on during the writing of this chapter. I can't wait until I get to write everyone's reaction to England at the meeting and how all his efforts to be sane will collapse! Though of course by the time you see this the next chapter with it all will be posted, so I suppose my thought is moot.

Shaving a single eyebrow and getting like a gajillion piercings in its place is something I imagine postmodernandpunk!England doing. Heheheh...

**Electric Plum**: Well if I told you y'all would do the same and then I wouldn't be awesome anymore, would I? Sorry, the secret must stay safe with me *nods firmly*

I've been nobly holding back so far on those, but if one is foolish enough to _ask_ for such things, I must obey, _non_? Not a full chapter's worth (shockingly not every person knows about it) but if you watch closely or not at all closely you may notice exactly five coming up...one may be harder to spot than the others. Good luck! ;D

I mourn that eyebrow, I truly do. *sniffs* Cut down in the prime of its life, the poor thing...

I think England would spit out a mouthful of tea when he discovered doujinshi especially...and then sit and watch them all, occasionally muttering about UKe around his nosebleed. Pervy old man. ;P

Aw, thanks! A Prussia/Denmark/America sandwich, perhaps?

**vesana**: We're practically birthday buddies! Happy birthday to you too then! I had an excellent birthday.

"I'm just glad his madness is of _benigni-tea_ instead of _malignan-tea_!" _YEAAAHH!_ *electric guitar power chords*

Heheheheheh...I like that one a lot too.

**Cat In The Fedora Hat**: Thanks! And of course I lied to him! Can you imagine what he'd do if he found out our real purposes here? We'd have a Red England slicing off our heads and looting the bodies before you could say "I enjoy England's pain"!

**vesana and SakuraMoriChan win! They get cake, not death! Yaaaaaay! Though of course the cake may be a lie...**

* * *

Evidently written on the way to the meeting. The handwriting becomes progressively sloppier throughout, words alternately becoming cramped and tiny and sprawling and overlarge.

**England's Notes**

**Results of Previous Expedition**: RULE BRITANNIA!

I've just had a brilliant idea: what if instead of writing tongue twisters, we said them? Tongue twisters are remarkably easy when you write them! Nobody would ever have to be hospitalized to have their tongue untied again! She shrells sea shells at the sea shore. Peter Piper picked a peck of peckled peppers. How much chuck chould a wood chuckchuck if a woodchuck could chuckle would.

See? Perfect!

**Next Expedition**: On to more pressing matters. How shall I slip into the meeting undetected? Perhaps in disguise as a woman? Or, I know, a woman pretending to be a man! Then I'd be a man pretending to be a woman pretending to be a man, and they'd never figure it out. Brill. Though perhaps at that point I might not be able to figure it out myself…Ah well. Always look on the bright side of life, as they say.

Ah, another brilliant idea! Perhaps if I built a large wooden badger…

~o0O0o~

England was late, and Canada was worried.

Unlike America, England had a punctuality rivaling that of Germany, and for him to be anything but on time was unheard of. It was now…well, quite a bit after that, and everyone was getting antsy. They couldn't start the meeting without all the members, after all.

Sometime earlier America had almost started the meeting before the others had reminded him that there was an Ally missing. Now he was bored and sulking, alternating between pretending his sleek metal pen was an airplane and drawing superhero sketches on his military files.

"_Angliya_ is not coming today?" Russia looked inordinately pleased at the idea, and Canada would have begun worrying even more about England's safety except Russia's face also displayed inklings of what Canada could have sworn was relief. Since Russia only looked relieved when he was informed Belarus was far away, this was disconcerting.

"Perhaps _Angleterre_ finally found his old red cloak and is at this moment conquering the Axis?" France frowned. "Or perhaps…" he trailed off in thought, twirling a strand of silky hair around a finger. As soon as he realized what he was doing he jerked his hand down self-consciously, eyes darting around to see if anyone noticed. Only Canada had, and since nobody ever listened to him he figured France's secret was safe. Whatever it was.

Canada spoke up. "What if he—." and was quickly, predictably overridden.

"What if the Axis has captured him?" China asked, long fingers tapping impatiently against his neatly piled paperwork. "How will that affect our strategy? Even now they might be extracting our plans from him!"

America just grinned. "Okay then, team, if that's true I'll just have to rescue him! Don't worry, with y'all as my backup! It would be so sweet, we'd burst into the torture chamber and Italy would scream his head off and faint like the sissy he is and Germany would be all like 'Ich vill not haf eine prisoner taken like vis! You khannot haf him!' and I'd be like 'No way you lame-o Nazipants! The hero's here to save the day and rescue the pr-Brit!' And then we'd free England and Prussia would finally admit how I'm so much more awesome than he is and England would probably make us some horrible cookies or something…hey, Russia! You're now the vice-president of eating England's cooking, 'kay?" As Russia blinked in bemusement, America nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah…it'll be so _sweet_."

Canada wondered if America even realized that despite his usual cheerfully chatter his hands had clenched into fists, the right easily, inadvertently crumpling the pen into a ball with a small whine of tortured metal. Dark blue ink oozed through the fingers of his tightened fist and dripped down onto his cartoon-scrawled papers.

"Fine," China snapped. "But if he's just off playing with his fairy friends and lost track of time—"

The double doors crashed against the walls, and a disheveled figure burst into the room.

"NO ONE EXPECTS THE—." and he seemed to realize where and who he was. "Ahem. I am Arthur, nation of the Britons. My apologies for my tardiness, gentlemen. Do carry on." He cleared his throat again, nervously tightening the knot of a tie that his grasping fingers somehow could not find around his neck. He frowned in puzzlement at that for a moment before shaking his head briskly and taking his usual seat at the table next to France.

"We kinda already know who you are, but whatevs dude. Why are you dressed like that?"

"Dressed like what?" He sent America a bemused look as he carefully pulled a teacup and saucer out of an inner pocket and placed them reverently on the table.

"…Ohhhkaaaaay then," America said, eyes as skeptical as his voice.

Canada was equally puzzled. It wasn't anywhere near Halloween, so if England was not trying to scare America in their annual contest, why had he appeared as he had and then denied it?

Not only was his clothing rumpled and stained, there wasn't as much of it as there should have been. It was only through the law of averages that England could be considered dressed, or indeed wearing clothing at all: he had only one sock and one shoe, each on different feet, and his jacket and tie were completely absent, showing a shirt missing several buttons and hanging half off his skinny shoulders. Splotches of what might have once been food joined scorch marks to decorate his outerwear, and his pants looked suspiciously like they were on backwards.

As for his face…Canada took a steadying breath and, well, faced it. The worst was not the hair so messy it looked like it had eaten combs whole and spat out their teeth. The worst was not the dark circles under his eyes, so dark they looked like Prussia had caught him at a defenseless moment with a permanent marker. The worst was not the strange, pudding-like substance caking one side of his head.

No, the worst was the eyebrows. Or rather, eyebrow. One of the mighty beasts that had once roamed England's forehead, freely expressing surprise, rare happiness, and every flavor of disapproval and anger…was gone. Gone. As if it had never been.

Canada could practically hear the agonized weeping of its mate.

He tore his gaze away from the terrible sight and turned his attention back to the conversation. If England wasn't willing to talk about why he was as late as he was and dressed like that, who was Canada to ask? Perhaps he had been down in the trenches or dealing with an emergency. England was always close-mouthed about his problems, and always-invisible Canada wasn't going to be the one to pry whatever this was out of him. So, resolute, Canada looked to his other companions.

Russia was still watching England with an expression that alternated between his usual creepy smile and a strangely nervous grin.

France was also studying his longtime friend and enemy, a puzzled frown replacing his usual come-hither look.

China, on the other hand, had seemingly dismissed England's actions as yet another Western quirk and turned to other matters. "_Měiguó_, why do you have ink all over your hand?" he asked America.

At this America looked down and said "Oh. Huh, didn't see that there," and with his usual respect for nice clothes wiped his hand on a pant leg. The cloth that had been a pale brown now was pale brown with a giant splotch of dark blue.

Without missing a beat America continued with a dramatic monologue on the importance of soldiers given adequate supplies of cheese for their hamburger rations, the stain standing out like a drop of blood in the water for a particularly well-tailored shark. As he spoke, everyone else turned to England expectantly.

England leaped to his feet with a muffled growl. "America, you sodding git! Have you no respect for good clothes or, hell, your own uniform? I'd blame it on whoever raised you but since it was _me_ I'm forced to conclude it's your own bloody fault!"

This was the sort of thing that always happened when America acted like more of an idiot than usual.

This was what _should_ have happened…but it _didn't_.

Instead, the room remained silent but for the almost audible incredulity of the other occupants. England, seemingly oblivious to the world, had his eyes affixed to the teacup in its saucer on the table before him.

With a care he might have used to hold his newborn child, England picked up the saucer and cup, cradling it gently in the palm of one hand.

At the sight of this, France's frown deepened and he peered closer. Even without knowing the intricacies of teacup etiquette, Canada could tell something was very wrong here.

And that worried him even more.

~o0O0o~

America, on the other hand, was not worried about England at all. Not in the least. All he thought was that it was pretty annoying how weird England was acting today; it kept distracting him from the heroic thoughts appropriate for war meetings.

The most annoying thing of all was that stupid missing eyebrow. America's eye kept inadvertently slipping to it, and he'd stare for a long moment before quickly averting his gaze, flushing as if England had strolled in completely naked. It was like that shaved patch of skin was some sort of black hole, and America's attention an unlucky spacefarer.

America knew he made fun of England's eyebrows a lot, and it was for good reason; the things were _enormous_. England with his eyebrows was a joke, but him missing one was- was- _wrong_. He had no other word for it. Just…wrong, an aberration, an explosive banana peel placed in the path of the universe.

On top of everything else, England missing an eyebrow was strange, and strange things when it came to England were not okay at all.

In America's considered opinion, England wasn't _allowed_ to act strange. That was just…uncool. England was always the same, that's what he _did_. Ancient, fusty, boring, outdated, stuffy England had been the same for centuries; no matter what strange wigs and bows came into fashion, he was always the same old man underneath.

England always came to any meeting at least ten minutes early. America knew this because he occasionally practiced his spy skills on following the other nation around town.

His uniform was always perfectly ironed, crisp, and smartly fitting. America knew this because he had once succeeded in slicing a pear in half with the starched creases in one of England's jackets that he had borrowed for such scientific experiments. It wasn't because he had a habit of watching how England's clothes fit or anything.

England was a punctual, boring old workaholic, which for variety's sake he occasionally alternated with being a boring, depressed old drunk. America knew this because _he _somehow ended up being the one to carry him home every time because unless England was practically unconscious whenever France tried he nearly ended up with a Glasgow Smile.

Speaking of France, America could set his watch by the disagreements in opinion/arguments/minor wars between the two. If you had only a line open in the dictionary under 'England' it would read Big eyebrows, grumpy, fights with France. See _Terrible Cook_.

Even now France was on one of his usual diatribes on the blandness of the English, flinging insults like an offended monkey with its feces, watching England's face hopefully for some sort of characteristic reaction.

Yet there England silently sat, incredibly late but seemingly uncaring about it, clothes disarrayed, stained, and in some cases completely absent, missing every cue to start a brawl with France.

This was _not_ the England America knew and lo—knew. Ahem.

"Now that everyone is here," China began cautiously, "Let's start the meeting. We need to get our next offensive planned. My troops—"

France suddenly jerked upright with an unmanly squeal, nearly falling out of his seat in his haste to get away. Flailing to his feet, he stumbled away from the table in horror, one trembling, pointing finger thrust toward England.

As the rest of the room stared, France babbled incoherently in his native tongue, eyes wide with panic. Piecing together what France was trying to say, Canada gasped, paling with shock.

Tension evident in his broad shoulders, Russia leaned forward, a hand protectively cupping around his scarf. "What did he do?" he breathed.

China tapped a finger in annoyance. "Stop the dramatics and talk sense! All this fuss is interrupting the meeting."

France continued his terrified monologue regardless, apparently unhearing.

America watched France's paroxysms of horror with blank incomprehension. "Y'know, France, we can't understand you when you speak in that weird monkey language—"

"HE GROPED ME!" France screamed.

The other nations froze, their simultaneous indrawn breaths seeming to suck the very air out of the room. The only sound was France's harsh panting and the light clink of ceramic as England took a delicate sip from his empty teacup and set it gently back on its saucer. As one the rest of the Allies turned mechanically to him and _stared_.

In the heat of their concentrated, shocked gazes, England merely blinked innocently.

"Well, yes. Obviously." he said calmly. And then England, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, former scourge of the seven seas and ruler over a fourth of the world, pouted as though he had been refused a lollipop and said "Of course, I would have much preferred it if I was seated next to America instead of France. It would have been so much more fun."

Then, as France went into full-blown hysterics, China screeched some very naughty words in Mandarin, Russia began telling his God that it would be really be much better if his prayers were answered _now_ instead of eighteen years in the future, Canada thoughtfully considered whether he should scream, faint, or just skip the pleasantries and skip straight to fleeing the building, and America simply sat with his jaw dropped…England began to giggle.

_England_ began to _giggle_.

And then _England_ began to _sing_.

"Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!" He caroled happily, tapping out what could charitably be called a beat with his teacup on its saucer.

Apparently this wasn't enough for his musical instincts, for he leaped to his feet and onto the table, strumming an invisible guitar as he sang. "Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!" He gleefully kicked China's carefully stacked paperwork into the nation's face. "Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!"

England swiped Russia's trusty pipe with the 'rust' stains from the nation's surprised grasp. "Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!" he crooned into his makeshift microphone, eyes half-lidded as he petted what he apparently perceived as one of the creatures by his side. "Pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows!"

This was not happening, America concluded. There was no way England came in late and was missing an eyebrow and looked like a hobo thrown into a food-fight and was dancing on the table and smiling like a little girl having a tea party with her stuffed animals and singing a song about _effing unicorns dancing on effing rainbows_. England could be a bit weird sometimes, sure, but _this?_ No. Not England, always reserved, always masked, always in-control even when he was bashing France's head in. No no no no _no_. America's very thoughts became incoherent at this point, reverting to a string of denials, desperate prayers, and assertions that this _was not happening_.

Suddenly England's entire demeanor changed. "Let's test your knowledge and see what you've learned so far." He spun, all his crazed attention suddenly focused on Russia. "What color are the unicorns?" he demanded.

Russia, the last remnants of his customary smile slipping from his face and running off to hide somewhere in Siberia, opened and closed his mouth futilely for a moment before England answered for him.

"Pink!" He whipped his gaze to Canada, who squeaked and nearly fell off his chair at the sudden attention. "Where are they dancing?" he snapped through his sweet smile.

Canada, who was suddenly remembering a very strange dream he had had last week, proved equally inaudible, so England cheerily answered his own question again.

"Raaaaaiiiinbooows!" And then he twisted to pin China with those mad, mad eyes. "Please use one word to describe the texture of their magical fur," he purred.

China was prepared. "Fluffy," he shot back.

England froze for several terrifying seconds, the silence so cold and brittle it could have been used to sink the Titanic.

England's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing dangerously. "_No_" he breathed, a look of such horrifying insanity on his face that America feared that he'd take out a spork and kill them all right then and there. Russia whimpered.

Then the happy smile was back as if it had never left, and he chirped "That's not the answer, silly! It's SMIIIIIILES! YEEAAAHH!"

At his own enormous cleverness he began giggling again, wild, looping laughs that convulsed his whole body. He collapsed back into his chair, sagging boneless against the backrest, and as the laughs began peaking at higher and higher pitches, fingers twitching on the teacup clutched protectively to his chest, he began to foam at the mouth.

In his dismay America found himself unable to move, and he sat aghast, petrified, pinned to his seat like an unfortunate insect to cardboard.

Abruptly the laughter stopped as quickly as it began, and England raised suddenly sane green eyes to meet America's.

"Why's the tea gone?" he asked plaintively, his voice so innocently confused it tore at America's heart.

His puzzled eyes held America's for a brief moment more before rolling back in his head, eyelids shutting as he passed out, head meeting the table with a soft thunk.

In the echoing silence that followed, America slumped back in his seat, letting out a slow breath.

"What the h-e-double hockey sticks was that?" someone whispered, and America turned to see Russia had grabbed the speaker, Canada, at some point and was desperately clutching him like a child who had just found out the monsters under his bed were real and they not only loved the taste of scarves over everything else but were also somehow all Belarus. Canada didn't seem to mind, because he in turn was hugging Kumojiro as though those same monsters loved to finish their meals of scarf with a dessert of polar bear with maple syrup.

"Is this some freaky thing all you old nations do sometimes?" America asked hopefully, and everyone could tell how shaken he was by how he not only _asked_ a question but also seemed to be actually _listening_ for the answer.

"_Non. Non._" was all France said, twisting a strand of hair frantically around a finger.

"I did not expect this," China said, face pale. "I had no idea he had this sort of _dependency_."

"Are you quite sure he is unconscious?" Russia asked.

"Here, lemme check," America said. He leaned forward and poked England's remaining eyebrow (there was no way anyone would get him to touch the spot where the other had been). "Iggy. Iggy. Iggy. Your eyebrows are huge. Your cooking sucks."

No response.

America hesitated, then pulled out the big guns. "You were a terrible older brother."

No response. Everyone sighed in relief.

"Looks like he's out," America said unnecessarily.

"Now what do we do?" France asked.

There was a heavy silence.

"I guess…" America began. "I guess I'll take him to his home, then. See if anything's up there."

"That's a terrible idea, but I can't think of any better ones for now," said China.

"Yes, please take him somewhere else, da?" Russia said, happy smile returning to his face like an ill-omened sunrise.

"We'll visit _Angleterre_ later, _non_? We'll just finish the plans and be right over." France nodded quickly.

America rose, and, slinging England over his shoulder in an easy, practiced movement, strode out of the room.

The other nations watched him go, exhausted by the events of the past hour.

A soft voice broke the silence. "Seriously, though," Canada said, "I still have no idea what the _maple_ all that was."

* * *

**Don't worry, Canada! The author has no idea either! =D**

**Special thanks for this chapter goes to Lilyflower1987, who suggested the foaming-at-the-mouth and the "Why's the tea gone" line from Pirates of the Caribbean. I used that line last chapter, too, in a decidedly more humorous context. So thanks, Lily!**

**How the heck did this turn into a song fic? "Pink Fluffy Unicorns Dancing On Rainbows" by Songs To Wear Pants To is indeed an actual song and it is indeed hilarious. I heard it for the first time, sat bolt upright, and said to the little mauve dragons that I absolutely **_**had**_** to make England sing this at some point. They told me it was a marvelous idea, so if you don't like it you can talk to them about it. Hmph.**

**Why did England have a teacup and saucer, you ask? In his brief moment of almost-sanity after Minty gave him the last of the tea, he tried to fool his psyche a bit. If tea makes him sane, he reasoned, and his mind associates tea with teacups, then perhaps having a teacup at the meeting would help him feel more sane in a sort of placebo effect. That was his hope, anyway. You saw how long **_**that**_** lasted.**

**Oh, as you may have guessed from context, **_**Měiguó **_**means "America" in pinyin Mandarin.**

**Believe it or not, the spork thought is not anachronistic! They date back to the late 1800s. Older Than They Think indeed.**

**There was a reason beyond general strangeness that France frowned at what England did with his teacup and saucer with Canada's accompanying thought about teacup etiquette: as the ever-knowledgeable JuniperGentle tells me, it's very rude to pick up one's saucer with the teacup when there's a perfectly serviceable table right in front of you. It was a warning sign to those present...not that there weren't a ton of those already.**

**And there's a reason why France was acting the way he was, too, and if you think back a few chapters it'll come to mind...**

**Anyone have any ideas what America was about to say before he corrected himself in his little monologue? It shouldn't be too hard to guess, knowing America ^.^**

**And ah, poor America; he never knew how much he relied on England being the same until he suddenly wasn't, didn't he.  
**

**Canada...and double hockey sticks. I couldn't resist.  
**

**Sorry if this chapter wasn't as silly as the ones before; I kept trying to make it more ridiculous and it slipped back down into something more serious. This is the climax, after all perhaps some gravity was needed?**

**We're nearing the end, folks! No, don't cry *pats head*. This just means if you have any awesome omake ideas for me to write, ya gotta get them to me soon! Speaking of omake, I just finished Catzi's, and I gotta say it's my favorite so far...  
**


	12. The Old Man And The Tea

**Very long review responses this time, since we're nearing the end. Well, even longer than usual, that is...feel free to skip them all as usual! Fortunately the actual chapter is super long too…**

**The Dangerous One**: How astute of you, yes, both nations are tsundere in my book. England's a blatant tsundere (and a type A), but America's one too (more of a type B) and Master of the Mixed Message to boot.

I couldn't decide which of the terrifying things the monsters were, so I just gave up and used them all. Now that Belarus is here, I'm kinda regretting it 0_0

And thanks! Prussia's been helping me with his Aura of Awesome.

**MarthLover298**: *chuckles* Your brain exploded from the insani-_tea_, perhaps? Well, the 4th Wall temporarily became invisible to England a few chapters ago...who knows, it might disappear completely, so keep trying! :P

**Catzi**: I hadn't considered that, WHAT IF HE GOT STUCK THIS WAY PERMANENTLY?

Though since this isn't a full-blown USUKUS fic, I'm gonna keep the hints to what could be considered brotherly...but yes, IMHO they definitely have romantic feelings for each other! *plots for future fics*

'Fraid not, m'dear; we have one more chapter and then an entire post full of omakes. What with all my essays to write you might get your internet back before I post it! Ugh.

**Julianess**: *chuckles* Yes, many of England's problems would be solved by just not being so picky! Coffee, pop (yes, I say pop. JUDGE ME *points dramatically*), China's funky tea...if only England liked any of those...

I'm glad you're enjoying this! (aside from the existential crisis over pop, of course)

**SakuraMoriChan**: Ah, but would _England_ say _"Spanish_ Inquisition"? That's the _real_ question, one that I shall determine the answer to with the use of these dangerously soft cushions!

Princess? Maaaaaaybe ;D Yeah, he totally nearly called England a princess.

I thought Red!England was terrifying, and then I met !England and then I had to go change my underwear, if ya know what I'm sayin'.

Heeheehee Portal...

**yoong**: Ah, sadly all good things/insane things must come to an end, and since I can't think of ways for England to go madder _without_ him starting to kill people, so...

Fortunately for America, England's currently more than a little unconscious, so he should be safe. Probably. Maybe. Perhaps...?

**catgirl963**: Another Pratchettian! Wooo! *secret Discworld handshake* I admit a very large part of my humor comes from him, so it's wonderful to hear you say that what I write is even distantly related in quality to his (perhaps that strange second cousin that they all have to invite to reunions because they're _family_ after all and that was the polite thing to do with _family_ but they always come even though it's clear that they're not _wanted_ and they always give everyone badly-made knitted scarves in a horrible puce-and-lavender and after just a few drinks they always burst into happy tears and climb the chandeliers and pretend to be a pirate...)

Anyway, I think Russia's terrifying because he's very good at what he does (assimilation on Borg-like levels, inspiring quiet, pants-wetting terror), whereas teadeprived!England is terrifying because one has _no flippin' idea what he's going to do next._ Even I don't know, and I'm the _author_.

**Lilyflower1987**: Another fabulous idea! I'll put in a hint of that in this chapter for you, and we'll see if I can make a full omake or just a chapter in DSM-Tea about it. My thanks again!

**Electric Plum**: But if I free them from their bonds they'll just run away! And they're much more funny when they can't escape from each other, too :P

Here's a hint: two are from Holy Grail, one from Flying Circus, and the last, much more subtle one is from Life of Brian.

I don't really ship them myself, but it's not like I hate the pairing so why not! If you want it to be *really* cute you can imagine Russia, despite his fear of crazy!England, protectively sitting on Canada in a he'll-have-to-get-through-me-first kind of instinct. ^J^

Shockingly I didn't really think I'd have some sort of dedicated fanbase, so unfortunately I don't have a name ready. Hmm...

And no worries, I have entire _warrens_ of Flying Mint Plot Bunnies ready to go...

**imagination junkie**: *chuckles* Thanks! I was a bit worried about dramatic tension and all that literary nonsense, but you have assuaged my fears ^^

The England-groping-France bit was actually one of the first things I thought of for this fic; it came to me soon after I thought of what eventually became the ending (and everything just sort of expanded from there).

I'm a little sad as well, but the guilt for torturing England is mounting too high for my conscience...nah, that's a lie, I'm enjoying this enormously, sadist that I am. But all good things must come to an end...

And Electric Plum was foolish/brilliant enough to suggest Monty Python, and I could barely restrain myself from writing a whole chapter on them like I did with Bond.

**vesana**: I had a choice with his clothes - go for a reemphasis of the joke or go with more general crazy person aura. For the sake of the story, I felt I had to go with the latter. Ah,well...If it helps, I was wearing my Spanish Inquisition t-shirt as I wrote it?

...oh I dearly wish it had. I would watch that episode(s) so _hard_.

Somehow my bad Spanish accent is also my bad French accent, and my bad Italian accent...heck, it's all just bad!

**LAST NON-OMAKE CHAPTER OH NOES!**

* * *

Written in an entirely different hand, one not necessarily sloppy but just disregarding the niceties of calligraphy in favor of speed of articulation:

**America's Notes**

I've just found this little book of England's, and well…I read it, okay? I was curious. DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT LITTLE BOOK. IT WAS FOR VALUABLE RESEARCH PURPOSES, OK? :|

Anyway, I can't believe all this was going on and we had no idea about it!

I think it might be best if—look, England's hilarious and adorable *the latter two words are scribbled out* when he gets embarrassed and goes bright red, but the stuff in here is _majorly_ embarrassing. It's gonna be bad enough when he comes to his senses (hopefully soon), I'll be lucky if he chooses to talk to me again in the next _year_ (or at least until his eyebrow grows back), and with the proof of this he'll keep freaking out about this for _forever_. Yuck.

You know how he gets when he goes all "Where can I put my face I'm so embarrassed kill me now, actually, better plan, _kill everyone else_" and all. Cleaning up afterwards is so messy.

How about this: We'll see how much he remembers after he wakes up, okay? If he asks for this book, I might give it to him, but if he doesn't…well, then this baby'll just come home with me.

…STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN LITTLE BOOK. SHUT UP, IT'S NOT LIKE THAT.

~o0O0o~

Slung over America's shoulder, on the way back to his house England repeatedly attempted to slip his hands down the back of America's pants, which was quite an achievement in America's opinion considering that the nation was still quite unconscious. In America's centuries of life he had thought only France could achieve that level of perviness.

Eschewing for once his characteristic method of entry into England's house—i.e. crashing open the front door with a bang—America swiped the key from its ancient home under the tiny model of Stonehenge's altar by the front path. It wasn't as if he had changed his habits or anything; it just wasn't nearly as fun without an irate England inside throwing things at him. He kicked open the door in a way that would doubtless leave scuff marks and entered England's old London home.

America stepped into the house...and paused, one foot hovering in the air. As he gazed in amazement, his very first thought was _Wow. Just…wow._

This was quickly followed by _Sweet Zombie Jesus, I need to find a camera_, with the accompanying _This is what he does when he doesn't get any tea?_ swiftly on its tail

After a moment of amazed gaping, he shook himself back into movement, closing his hanging jaw with a snap.

Navigating carefully around the detritus strewn about the floor and the delicate webs of embroidery thread arcing from every angle, America carried England up to his room, which was to his relief mostly normal but for a crumpled quilt stuffed under the bed and those ever-present lines of spoons (_seriously, where did England get that many spoons?_). He placed England on his bed—which was so neatly made America almost expected to hurt himself on the edges—and went to the bathroom for a wet washcloth. There he nearly slipped on the torn remnants of the bag on the floor because he was so focused on circumventing the razor balanced on the edge of the sink. America knew he wasn't always the most perceptive of countries in the Western Hemisphere, but even he could see what despicable act that razor had been used in.

Washcloth at the ready, he managed to get the worst of the pudding-like substance off of England's face as well as some of the other mysterious stains. He cleaned him up as well as he could without things getting even more awkward, but as it was his hand involuntarily avoided the place where The Eyebrow should have been, the blank patch of skin sucking at America's eyes whenever they accidently drew near.

He debated whether to up the awkwardness and the dangers of an unexpected French invasion by undressing England and putting him into something more comfortable, like any pants that weren't on backwards. But for whatever reason America's legendary courage failed him at that moment—along with the terrifying possibility that England wasn't wearing any underwear—and he ultimately decided to go with a laissez-faire approach and stick with just cleaning out his pockets.

Their contents, he found, were as random as the state of the rest of the house. Crammed into one too-small pocket was a leather-bound book, which America absent-mindedly placed on the bedside table with the rest, which included a tiny dragon made out of pipe-cleaners, what could have been a Late Cretaceous sedimentary rock or just one of England's scones, and what looked suspiciously like blackmail photos of Prussia's Gilbird.

America scratched the back of his head in puzzlement, eyes on the ill-looking England on the bed. He was missing something, he was sure of it…

"Oh yeah!" From his personal supply he gently extracted a hamburger and, patting it on the sesame seeds, balanced it on England's head. His science was sound: hamburgers were naturally innocent beings made of pure happiness, devoid of anything sad or ill or unpleasant. Like a white shirt on spaghetti-and-meatballs-and-marinara-sauce night, his medicinal hamburger would draw any sickness out of England and into itself. The only downside was that America would end up with a very unhappy burger, which he would then cremate with all due ceremony and bury in his back yard with a tiny headstone to mark the spot. It was a sacrifice, yes, but in such situations such sacrifices were necessary.

He shook a cautionary finger at the clearly unconscious England. "Y'know, I don't use a precious hamburger on just anyone, so you better admit what a heroic act this is when you're, y'know, not crazy again. You'd never catch me giving the hamburger treatment to, like, _Russia_ or anybody. Nope." What this meant about his relationship with England he refused to consider.

For good measure he tucked a piece of American cheese under the bun and England further under the covers.

_Now what?_

If the walk up here through the house was representative whatsoever of the condition of the rest of the property, England's craziness had not been limited to the Allied meeting by far.

_I guess I should look at the rest of the house, then. Kinda puts a damper on things if the stove's on or something—OH NO WHAT IF ENGLAND COOKED WHEN HE WAS CRAZY OH CRAP WE'RE ALL DEAD—!_

America dashed downstairs to the living room, resisting the urge to hide in that sweet fort (_there'll be time for that later, dude_) in favor of far more dire matters. Picking up a conveniently placed fruitcake mace, he inched toward the kitchen door, which in his sight seemed to glow with radioactive malice.

He took a deep breath, and, blinking the sweat out of his eyes and thinking up cool names for his weapon to distract himself (his current top contender was 'Fruitcake Or Death'), darted around the corner and into the kitchen, mace upraised.

Even expecting the worst his ever-ready imagination could create, he still reeled back in horror at the sight.

Before he could begin comprehending anything else about the monster, the words "Lovecraft," "Dungeon Dimensions," and "Kill it with fire!" came to mind. Its body was fluid and churning, an unpleasant off-white with a slimy sheen sending off oily rainbows in the low light.

It immediately attacked, swinging a (_limb? tentacle?_) shape-neutral grotesque thing at his head, and he barely managed to stumble back in time. Reflexively he slashed at it with Fruitcake Or Death, but its (_flesh? essence?_) body-stuff just reformed around it and sucked the weapon away.

He hoped for a moment that the sedimentary-rock qualities of the fruitcake would poison the (_creature? hentai cosplayer?_) thing, or at least give it a severe case of indigestion, but a realization soon struck. He cursed himself for his foolishness—you might be able to fight fire with fire and dinosaurs with dinosaurs, but you couldn't fight English cooking with English cooking. No, it was far too evil for that.

The monster lashed out again, steaming towards him with all the power, beauty, and sliminess of the offspring of a torrid affair between a snail and a glacier. America dodged again, darting to the side and out of its current path, looking desperately for some sort of advantage.

Their dance went on, the beast attacking and America dodging, hoping frantically that he would not be the one to get his feet stepped on, so to speak. He could see what happened to things the creature's slime touched—'liquidated' was a mild word for it—and the slime spread wherever it moved, leaving swaths of tile bubbling and stinking blackly.

With his mad ninja skills he managed to remain unharmed, but before he knew it the toxic slime was everywhere, the oleaginous tentacles were everywhere, and the edge of the stove was pressed into his back.

Trapped.

America personally was not the most poetic of nations, but his people were certainly no dunces when it came to the written or spoken word. Sure, he didn't have that Shakespeare guy England was always going on about or whoever thought up Beowulf, but then again England didn't have Twain or Poe, did he? So America felt confident he was doing the circumstances justice without sinking to purple prose when he eloquently summed up his reaction, hopes, and complete description of his opinion of the current predicament:

"Ohshitshitshit_shitshitSHITSH_—ow!" Something at his back was far too hot for his taste, as he found to his displeasure when he leaned too far back out of the way of a probing appendage. He chanced a quick look back to see one of the burners still very much on, its flame hot and blue beneath an overheated kettle.

He remembered his thought from just a minute before and grinned manically. _Why not! It looks kind of oily, after all..._ Grabbing one of the bowls of leaves lying incongruously around the kitchen, he set its contents ablaze and threw it into the mass of the monster like a particularly eco-conscious Molotov cocktail.

The beast paused in evident surprise for a moment at the sudden action of its prey—and then something caught and with an audible _whoosh_ it went up in flames like all the fireworks of the Fourth of July at once.

As far as America concerned, this was great.

What wasn't quite as great was the bit where it exploded, but he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. After all, he really should have expected the monster to explode—heck, that's Hollywood 101 right there.

As it was, feeling distinctly frizzled by the blast and staring blankly at the large black stain on the floor where his nemesis had been, America sagged against the stove for a moment before the knowledge of his victory finally hit.

He leapt to his feet, punching the sky triumphantly "WOO! AND THE HERO WINS AGAIN! U-S-A! U-S-A!" He moonwalked through the oily, sooty remains of his dastardly foe for a few minutes, high on adrenaline, success, and being so totally awesome.

_He'll probably have to have some repairman come in some time, but a ton of London's in ruins anyway so I don't think he'll be too bothered by it. Besides, I heroically saved his life just now, so no whining allowed!_ He thought as he looked with pride at the grimy results of his labor. _It certainly isn't the first time England's kitchen has been burnt down, and it won't be the last if I know England!_

As the hero victorious over the evil English Cooking Monster, he figured he was due a bit of coffee, so he rummaged around until he found those coffee beans he left here the last time he visited. He was about to use one of England's teacups when he spotted his favorite mug in the corner of the cabinet, surprisingly near the front for a house where coffee and its accessories were abhorred like they were communism or something. He hoped England hadn't used his patriotic coffee mug for drinking tea. That would be just gross.

He gave it a high-five anyway. "Hey, there you are, buddy! What're you doing at boring old England's house, huh? I haven't seen you in practically forever!"

After adding approximately a metric ton of sugar to his coffee, he continued, "Hey, wanna go check out the rest of the house, now that I've defeated the Dreaded Demon of Doom? I can't _wait _to see what batty England got up to!" Chuckling to himself, he trotted out into the gardens with one last smirk at his destroyed adversary.

But for the strange stickiness of the garden gate, the deep trench dug for no apparent reason, what could have been a bow and arrow set if you squinted, and the enormous, gaily-colored top hat, everything could have almost passed for normal.

Similarly, what America privately thought of as "England's super-secret magical playhouse" in the basement was, like the bedroom, relatively undisturbed. There was a large quantity of alcohol missing from the shelves, which helped to explain the giant scorch marks everywhere but didn't do much to show why the entire room stank of France's feet.

Crunching happily on some Git Treats and glad to be out of _that_ particular funk, he headed back upstairs.

It was all fascinating, in an awesome-yet-creepy kind of way; the lines of spoons everywhere, the embroidery webs, the half-brick in some sort of shrine…America could only figuratively sit back and eat popcorn.

The living room, though, the living room was his favorite of all.

As if the sweet fruitcake-and-book fort wasn't awesome enough (seriously, England needed to come over to America's house some time so they could have an epic pillow fort battle), there were also the drawings and writings, most of them blatantly done in ink on the formerly-bland walls as if done by some punk toddler.

"Invasion plans for the…Neanderthals?" he tilted his head to read better. "Oh, the Netherlands. That's a place, right?" He squinted at the corresponding sketches on the walls. "And you're riding the Loch Ness Monster, too! How sweet is that!"

He sat bolt upright, imagination firing on all mighty cylinders, and breathed "Yes…yes, this is brilliant! Only instead of Nessie a giant kickass T-rex or something! And instead of this Neverland guy or whatever his name is, like, Japan or somebody! Yeah…" he trailed off into happy dreams, eyes unfocused.

Grinning, he said "I had no idea you were such a—ahaha—_fruitcake_ underneath all that stuffiness! Geez, if only you were this crazy all the time, England, we could plan such awesome stuff together!" He laughed as he imagined it; England instead of constantly shooting down America's awesome ideas actually helping him with them. His ideas wouldn't be epic as America's own, of course, but he could be the Watson to America's Holmes and inspire him and stuff!

The other sketches on the walls were even better. Among many others was a teacup with wings and a halo, what looked a lot like a young America himself with bunny ears, and a suspiciously familiar-looking guy with unexpectedly bushy eyebrows and the words "Kirkland was here" inscribed nearby. One whole wall was devoted to a war between gloves and mittens.

The words "They're watching me" turned up occasionally as well, with the chilling "Oh no they're right behind me aren't they oh why do they keep watching" that sent shivers down America's back and anxious looks over his shoulder.

He dipped a burger into his coffee and munched contemplatively as he tried to figure out what strange mental paths had led England to do all this.

Eventually, though, he ran out of distractions and finally turned to cleaning what he could. _Just since I got nothing better to do_, he told himself firmly. America being America, a lot of things just ended up hidden inconspicuously beneath other things, but he did do a bit of what England would probably consider 'proper' cleaning. When he was done the house certainly wasn't pristine, but it wasn't as egregiously insane-looking anymore, either.

"Hamburger therapy, monster slaying, _and_ cleaning, Iggy? Dang, dude, you _seriously_ owe me big time now! You're lucky I'm so awesome."

Rubbing the back of his neck tiredly, he trudged back up to England's room to check on the unconscious nation again, sinking into the chair beside his bed. There was a reason—well, many reasons—why he didn't like cleaning, and this was one of them. He could never figure out how England found the energy to clean everything all the time like some sort of fussy housewife. Though England would probably act that wasn't like _totally_ the truth and say something like "It's keeping everything shipshape, idiot! Do you want to be caught off your guard when the French invade?"

At some point it seemed out-cold England had become deeply-sleeping England—America could tell because sleeping England always curled up like a threatened hedgehog when he slept—and considering the dark circles under his eyes America couldn't really say he was surprised at the development. It was obvious England had been at the very end of his rope at the meeting, and if the state of the house was anything to judge by, his troubles had been going on for a long time now. What if he had been pushed too far? What if he never woke up? What if America was stuck here being bored and staring at England like a creeper for _forever?_

Well then, America would have to rescue him, wouldn't he! He was a hero, after all! He knew all sorts of awesome Boy Scout first aid, like artificial respiration and stuff!

He was just considering starting the heroic rescue attempt by poking England's remaining eyebrow again and annoying him into wakefulness or pulling that stunt he did that one time when England died (and boy had _that_ scared him something awful) when his eyes alighted on something brown on the bedside table. He looked closer.

_Oh yeah, that book from England's pocket._ He hesitated before picking it up. Knowing England it could be kinky porn (_probably with tea involved_, the snarkier part of his mind added helpfully) or poetry or, worse, an English cookbook. Or it could just be really, really boring.

But he was curious, so curious. And unless England woke up while he was reading like in some bad horror movie, he'd never find out.

Hah, was there even a question about whether he'd do it or not? He was America! He considered looking before leaping something only cowardly villains or timid sidekicks did.

America snuck another look at the unconscious England before cracking the untitled cover, grinning like a naughty child sneaking his hand into the cookie jar right behind his mother's back.

He read through the first couple of pages with a half-smile. It was all so very _England _he couldn't help but chuckle in a few places.

But as he continued to read, his smile began to fade as the handwriting and the words themselves started stuttering across the lines, each stroke of the pen a jerking slash. He began turning the pages faster and faster, watching the tendrils of madness creeping through the pages, only pausing a moment on the sketches of himself riding a unicorn into a giant teacup before moving on. Compared with some of the other occupants of the journal, such things were pedestrian.

The maddened scribbling built and built, scarring each leaf with indelible insanity, before it suddenly ended, the next page as clean as newly-fallen snow.

Staring at it blankly, America frowned. All the stuff in the house was pretty funny, sure, but something felt different when it was written here, something about how that so-familiar handwriting gibbered across the pages where it should have stalked with peeved dignity. Something…not funny at all.

He turned back to the entry written at what he guessed must have been before England visited him. _Huh, already he started rhyming. I thought it was weird, but I didn't think anything was wrong, y'know? Just England being more England-y than usual._

America knew he was pretty oblivious, but he should have noticed _something_, right? No, he just continued with his pushups, didn't he. Oblivious, oblivious America.

Something in him protested the fact that England had gone to him third of the Allies and only then because he didn't want to visit Russia. America traced the elegant script of his entry with a calloused finger. '_One of his least favorite nations'? Is that truly what England thinks of me? _he thought wistfully, and cast another look at the sleeping nation, who was now drooling on his pillow in an entirely undignified manner.

But then another realization struck, knocking the self-pity from his head like water out of a swimmer's ears.

England was a master of prideful denial, a man who would continue asserting he didn't need any medical attention for his gaping wounds (or 'mere flesh wounds' as he called them) until he keeled over from the blood loss, a nation that would rather speak French before admitting he needed assistance.

And then _England_ actually asked _America_ for help...and America brushed him off with a few choice comments about Shakespeare and the Revolution.

America never felt guilty, since it's impossible to feel guilt when you're always right, but there was something that could have passed for its identical twin brother worming its way in him now. He looked around sheepishly as if he expected some other nation to pop up and take pictures of his unusual emotional state.

His gut was urging him to do something, and America always listened to his gut; he supplied it with hamburgers and it supplied him with good advice. That was how their little arrangement worked.

He reached into the drawer of England's bedside table and, after shuffling through embroidery samplers, what might have been the Holy Grail, and an old photograph of a young America and England at their Virginia homestead, finally found a pen at the back. He clicked it meditatively for a few seconds before nodding to himself and, opening the little journal to an empty page, began to write.

It was some time later that he lifted his still ink-stained hand from earlier away from the page. America rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his voice not quite its usual boisterous volume. "All this for tea, huh? Who'da thought? I guess tea just ain't my cup of tea like it is England's. I mean, I love my Southern sweet tea an' all, but not like _this_..." and he trailed off as he cast his mind back to the state he had found England's usually pristine home, eyes on the soft rise and fall of England's chest.

He broke his uncharacteristically contemplative mood with a swift clap of the hands and a broad grin. "Well, with a hero like me, anything's possible! I'm sure I can rustle up some of the stuff somewhere..."

~o0O0o~

England woke up feeling, if he was being charitable, like a load of old manure left out in the hot sunshine for too long; weak and ill, simultaneously parched and unpleasantly runny.

What had woken him?

There was a noise from downstairs, a muffled sort of thumping, and completely on autopilot England rolled out of bed, where for a time he found the carpet suddenly under his cheek exceedingly interesting, before he remembered that his primary method of locomotion was vertically arranged and climbed to his wobbling feet. He made his meandering way downstairs, occasionally running into a wall and blinking bemusedly for a minute or two before light-headedly recalling what walls were and continuing his journey.

He ended up in the kitchen before a large chest with a piece of paper pinned to the top. It was curiously familiar somehow, and it took a little while before the mental messenger he sent to check his memory banks came back on his tired old horse, wearily waved a positive identification, and promptly fell asleep.

His memory about the past few days was annoyingly fuzzy in some places; hell, he couldn't even remember how he got home after…whatever that was that he was at…but at any rate he was sure about this.

It was a tea chest, nigh-on identical to the empty ones he had in his storage room. He could tell because not so long ago he had spent several hours curled up in one in a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to cling to his sanity.

Ruthlessly squashing the tiny flare of hope that sprouted in his chest like a damnable dandelion, he scowled and snatched up the scrap of paper.

It took a moment for his blurry eyes to focus on the untidy scrawl, another before he recognized it as the handwriting of everyone's favorite American idiot, and another before the pen strokes resolved into words. It read:

And so the hero saves the day again! Ahahaha! (Though China was kinda my backup. And that other guy, whatshisface.)

Good thing I had some of the stuff just lying around the place!

Your Hero,

America

P.S. I'll be back later with more boxes. There's plenty more where this came from!

What kind of person wrote out a laugh? And with three exclamation points? That was a sure sign of an idiot and/or a madman in England's book. Though considering his recent antics he wasn't exactly in a position to throw around accusations of insanity, was he?

America was more than a bit of an arse, and even more of one with his blasted hero complex activated. Normally England would curse that complex and its need for dramatic last-minute victories with every word in his extensive lexicon of profanity, but right now he could only thank it fervently.

But all that was peripheral to his mind because now rising, fluttering hope was spurring his tired old heart into frantic speed, and through his wavering vision there the chest sat, practically throwing off a tea-shaped halo. With trembling hands and strangely damp eyes he reached for the trunk, quivering with need and joy and a horrible hope and with a heave that spent his last energy, he threw open the lid to find—

Coffee.

_Coffee._

He stared.

And then as the realization hit with the force of an overweight American to the back of the head he slumped to his knees, raw desperation and agony clogging his throat, mind teetering dangerously on the very precipice.

_No…no…_

Dully he weighed whether it would be better to start with bursting into tears or just destroying the Earth. He had decided on beginning the festivities with beating his brains out on the trunk and was leaning forward to do so when he…paused.

Because there underneath the bitter stench of the beans was something else, something beautiful, and he flew forward to dig down with crazed fingers, beans flying everywhere like rattling packing peanuts, to reveal the underlying strata of glorious tea leaves. More tea than he had seen in years, it felt like, and so wonderful and beautiful he could only stare in amazement for a moment before reaching out a shaking, unbelieving hand to gently trace the edge of one leaf. It was real. It was _real_.

It was even his favorite kind, too.

As he dizzily, happily faceplanted into it, rubbing his face into it as if it was catnip and he a druggie tabby, he had only one coherent thought.

_Oh America_, it went, _you terrible, horrible, absolutely marvelous git._

* * *

**Hope there wasn't too much mood whiplash this chapter! It was tricky trying to keep things lighthearted, sweet, and conclusive all at once, but I don't think this turned out **_**too **_**bad. England's such a woobie, I swear. Also, if I did my job right the other chapters (written from England's third person POV) should feel different from this chapter (mostly America's third-person POV).**

**How, you ask, did America 1) find all that tea, and 2) know England's preferences on the matter? Well, if you're a sap and a shipper like I am, he's not quite as oblivious as he pretends to be, and he just...happened...to have some of England's favorite tea lying around. Y'know. Just in case he visited or something. The rest, he...procured. He's *the* Boy Scout, after all. **

**And why the coffee beans, you ask? Because America is America, and he's just as bad at showing unalloyed affection as England is. The coffee beans were a jerk move designed to compensate for the niceness of the tea. And because I had to get one last shot at England, poor guy.**

**I suppose the popularity of sweet tea in the South could be reflective of America secretly not despising tea as much as he insists he does. I think it's sweet, personally. Both him and the drink ^^**

**Yes, America was imagining Godzilla. ;D If you want my 'logical' explanation for this anachronism (the first Godzilla was in 1954 and originated in Japan), see Red England.**

**Here's the only real bit of history this chapter: the "Kirkland was here" drawing. It originated during soldiers in WWII with the drawing of a bald man peeking over a wall from the British (he was/is called Chad) and the phrase "Kilroy was here" from the Americans. It was a wartime meme graffiti that popped up everywhere and still occasionally does today. It was too perfect **_**not**_** to allude to.**

**And yes, the bit about writing laughter and multiple exclamation points was swiped from **_**Maskerade**_**.**

**As for America's talking to inanimate objects, don't worry, he's not going crazy too. In my head!canon America's just naturally a little loopy all the time.**

**If you're **_**still **_**looking desperately for some historical verisimilitude, you can pretend America's tea was representative of all the supplies the Americans were mainlining the British during the war. But, as I said before, if you're looking for history in this one you'll be hard pressed indeed. ;)**


	13. The Omake Partea

**Hey, it seems like I subconsciously really like writing stories with 13 chapters, because it's happened again. For this is the LAST chapter! *weeps* Well...probably.**

**JuniperGentle**: *turns a rather embarassing red* Th-thanks!

If England's tendency to get distracted and let things burn is as common as I suspect it is, I'll bet the building contractors know England's kitchen back to front. And of course, that thought depends on whether the little mauve dragons are real or not! I don't trust your eyewitness account, you're English after all.

*has sudden mental image of England going around in a large eyepatch until his eyebrow grows back*

*squints suspiciously* Was that a significant pause there before the 'heroic'? You had another one earlier too, I remember! And suspicious coughing! I know how you sneaky English people work, you can't fool me. Hmph.

I was a bit worried because I wrote most of this in various states of sleep-deprivation, which makes _me_ have mood swings, which has...mixed results.

P.S. That is a bit odd, isn't it? For me it has some connotations of badness, but mostly is just the meaning "very very much". Yet another strange twist of etymology, no?

P.P.S. Actually, I didn't even consider that! Perhaps it had its roots there *looks through correspondence* Yes, you said something like 'I wonder how he survived without [tea]...' And then in my response I mused about maple tea and sneaking supplies while pretending to paint nails and then had the crucial idea about America's snarky half-coffee trick. And after that I went into my Great Big Book of Story Ideas and started writing Idea #122, which then proceeded to take up _quite _a few pages with plans on how to make England crazy. I suspect this was all also helped by the underlying concept of Idea #116 (the incident where Germany cut off hair product shipments to France) from a few days earlier, which greygreenwolf inspired.

So, in conclusion, it's all _your_ fault! So there.

**Electric Plum: ***chuckles* If I ever write humorous RussCan, I'll be sure to include that scene. Though since that is pretty dang unlikely, feel free to use it yourself ^^

Whoops! It's certainly fixed now! Thanks for pointing that out; I probably should have gotten some actual sleep before posting it ^^ Though if America eats burgers with _poppy_ seeds, it would definitely explain some things about him...

*wakes up from sugar coma, gives shaky thumbs-up* Yah...creativity...woo... *passes out again* ;D

Poor guy. I don't think England would mind *cats* watching him, but fangirls with binoculars and nosebleeds at inappropriate times? Ugh!

**yoong**: Haha, America never had sanity to begin with, so he's safe ;D As far as I know, all those behaviors are pretty much typical of normal!America (my amusing mental image of him is with a tiny burger graveyard in his backyard, the way children do with their pet goldfish).

...but no, I don't want to know what happens when he's deprived of coffee, hamburgers, or worse, _both_. It's never good when a superpower gets the munchies O~O

**imagination junkie**: I'm so glad you think so! I still feel it's not as good as it could be *grumpgrumpgrump* but if y'all like it I can't throw /too/ much out, can I?

I can't wait either! 'Cause frankly I've got too many ideas right now to pick just one. Fortunately I have the whoooooole summer...

**SakuraMoriChan**: I always squee at USUK hints myself ^^ I really didn't have the heart to have a downer ending after all the horrible, traumatizing stuff England went through! Poor guy. And yeah, if anyone touched my pasta or dark chocolate (sometimes I eat them together!) they would very quickly know the meaning of true fear. And pain.

**And now that's enough stalling - onto the actual omake! To make sure everyone's clear: if you see bolded writing throughout these, those are my comments.**

* * *

PIRATETREE'S DARK OMAKE

**Remember how England hunted that aurochs in the garden in **_**DSM-Tea**_** and 'ate well that night'…despite the fact that aurochs have been extinct in Britain since the Bronze Age? Well, PirateTree offered an awful, horrific, **_**awesome**_** suggestion for what he ended up eating. Remember, this did not actually happen! Perhaps in this fic's horror-genre twin, but not here.**

…**And don't cry.**

It was late afternoon at England's garden, and not all was right with the world. The creature paused again, ears pricked. It had been a long time since it had needed to rely on instinct or be wary of danger, but something about the atmosphere seemed…off. It had the sensation it was being watched.

Eyes alert, it scrutinized its surroundings warily, muscles tensing in a way that reminded it unpleasantly of earlier times. A twig snapped, and it whirled to face its aggressor.

It blinked in surprise at what it saw. _England?_ It relaxed, feeling rather silly about the paranoia that had so easily gripped it just a moment before. _We haven't played this game in a while, have we? Very well, you can be It to start, and I'll—_

It was cut off by a thud of impact in its side and, puzzled, it looked down to see a wooden shaft of an arrow protruding from its body, a thick line of gore already slipping down. A wave of dizziness at the sight of its own blood hit, sharp pain following close behind.

…_England?_ it whispered, turning wide, shocked eyes to its friend.

And was faced with dispassionately focused green eyes and another arrow drawn.

_What are you doing!_ it screamed, barely dodging in time.

England merely nocked another to his strangely-constructed bow. "You're only an animal, aurochs, and I'll never be one to call you a particularly bright one, but even you must have known not to eat my rosebushes. _Nobody_ eats Albion's rosebushes."

_What? I'm not an aurochs, England! Are you blind? I'm a—_ it gasped with pain as another arrow found its mark.

How could this be happening? England was its friend, a strange but kind nation who always had something tasty or at least well-meant on hand. What was this betrayal? And why?

It stood frozen in shock and indecision for a moment longer, and then as another arrowhead buried itself in its leg, surrendered itself to instinct, turned, and ran.

There was a terrible sense of wrongness in its situation, the lazy afternoon sun smiling down benignly and humanity bustling obliviously nearby. Surely there should be a pounding storm or something similarly ill-omened for something like this, the creature thought hysterically. It was being hunted by one it considered a friend, his mind twisted inexplicably, perhaps permanently by madness, its death nearer with every blood-soaked second.

An indeterminate amount of time it ran, growing weaker with every step, blood pouring down its sides and dripping to the ground. Reduced to an animal-like consciousness by pain and fear, it had only one word echoing through its mind as bloody foam dripped down its chin and its trembling legs staggered onward.

_no no no no no_

Mindless and weary, it wasn't until it was too late that it caught the light flashing off of golden hair again. A moment later it was wrestled to the ground, thudding with an impact that snapped impaled shafts and driving the heads ever-deeper into torn flesh.

Despite its panicked, adrenaline-fueled flails to get away, England easily held it down. His strength was not what it was in the heyday of his empire, but it was still ample enough to restrain his prey. As it frantically, futilely struggled, he reached in a pocket and withdrew an ancient flint knife that probably hadn't seen the light of day in millennia. England scrutinized the edge with a critical eye, testing it on his thumb before nodding with approval.

The creature sobbed with dread and pain. _Please, England! Please don't do it, I don't know what's come over you to do something like this. Please, I'm begging you, don't kill me!_

England paused, and the animal had a brief moment of hope that he had finally come to his senses. Its heart sank like a doomed ship when it was soon revealed that he was merely adjusting his grip on the old knife to a proper hold. He rolled his neck with a crackling of joints, raised his arm, and began to chop at his prey's own neck with swift, brutal blows.

"I always feel bad when I kill animals, you know," England said conversationally over the slick tearing of the other's flesh under his blade. "It's always been necessary for my continued survival as a person and a nation, but that doesn't mean I like it."

He sighed lightly and, sawing through twitching muscle now, raised his voice over the desperate gasps of the dying creature. "The hares especially…those bunnies are the worst, the absolute worst. They look at me like I'm betraying family when I'm doing it. And not with the usual betrayal I get into with Wales and Scotland and the Irelands, either." He absently rubbed at his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a long streak of bright crimson.

The animal could feel its life-blood pouring into the dark earth of the garden, weakening further with every futile, pained pump of its heart. Time seemed to slow, its brain desperately clutching at every detail its dimming senses could feed it as if that could somehow delay the inevitable. Sobs of fear and grief shook it uncontrollably, a single crystal tear welling up before trickling slowly down its once-pristine cheek.

England shook his head sadly, sighing. "We all have to eat, aurochs. Circle of life and all that. And you _were_ eating my rosebushes, after all. I thought I taught all the animals what a bad idea that was centuries ago!" He tsked disapprovingly.

"But don't worry," he said, patting the creature's shoulder comfortingly, "I'll do the appropriate rites."

As everything faded to grey and then black, the pain slipping away with the rest of the world, the last words the creature heard were "How well we'll eat tonight, won't we."

And with its last scrap of air, the unicorn could only let out a tortured, whispering scream through its severed trachea, the golden glow of its horn fading to empty, sick white.

…**sweet pink fluffy unicorns, I am a terrible person.**

**Anyone catch the allusion to hare!England?**

~o0O0o~

OBLIGATORY USUKUS OMAKE (because they're my OTP, y'know)

**Okay, now we need something to cheer us up a bit. I know! Remember those photos Lithuania took?**

America stared at the photograph before him, for once in his life speechless. It was only after incoherently opening and closing his mouth a few times that he finally managed to get out an intelligible sentence. "How'd you get him to _smile_ like that?"

Lithuania smiled nervously, though with an underlying tone of victory. "He did it himself; he just appeared on Russia's doorstep with an armful of sunflowers and scones. He actually hugged him! I don't think anyone besides Ukraine or Belarus has ever—"

"Whoa, wait a minute. He gave Russia _flowers_? And baked his _scones_ for him? And _hugged_ him? _England?_

"Yes, you see England thought—"

"What the hell, England? Russia? _Russia? _The guy's completely unheroic! You can do way better than that!"

Lithuania opened his mouth to try again, then closed it with a sigh. What was the point, really? As America continued his argument with a nonexistent England, clutching the photo protectively to his chest, Lithuania walked away, rubbing his temples.

**And that, class, is how the Cold War began.**

~o0O0o~

SCONES OF DOOM OMAKE

**If you'll recall when he visited Russia, England gave him sunflowers and a batch of scones, of which the latter was never mentioned again. If normal!England's scones are as bad as they are, what about crazy!England's? Sweet, sweet crack.**

The doors to Estonia's room opened with a crash. Long used to these sorts of interruptions, he gently replaced the bookmark into his latest book's pages and turned to his diminutive invader.

"Yes, Latvia?" he sighed. "What is it this time?"

Latvia looked even more terrified than usual, if such a thing was possible. _Well, where Russia's concerned, anything's possible,_ Estonia thought drily, adjusting his glasses.

Latvia seemed hesitant to start, wringing trembling hands and looking as though he might flee at any moment. "Um. How to start. Er. Okay, r- remember those scone things England gave us a few years back, d- during the Incident?"

Estonia swallowed. "Yes, of course I do. What about them?" he snapped, a little more forcefully than he intended.

Latvia was oblivious to it, staring glassily off into a distance that only his fearful eyes could see. "Afterward, Russia told me to get r- rid of them, right? So I threw them out. They ended up back in the kitchen…four times. So I put them in Russia's giant Ivan's Day bonfire. They didn't burn. I put them in a blender. The blades d- dulled, then the whole thing shattered. I got more desperate: I put them under my hat for when Russia did his little 'let's make Latvia shorter' party trick. I got a con- concussion, and the stupid things just grinned at me. Heck, I even made Belarus think they wanted to marry Russia, and they weren't even scratched afterward!" He shuddered. "So I put them in a separate section of the compost pile, in the hope t- time would win or at least they'd stop staring at me. And…" he began to fidget even worse than before, trembling so hard his outline actually blurred before Estonia's eyes.

"Then what happened?" Estonia asked, engrossed despite himself.

"Then…um…I sort of forgot about them," his voice dropped into a hushed, horrified whisper, "and at some point years later I- I- I SPREAD THEM ON RUSSIA'S SUNFLOWERS!" he screeched.

Estonia blinked, feeling a little let down by the anticlimactic pronouncement. But then again, that was Latvia for you. "So…?"

Latvia stared at him blankly. "So? _So?_ They're coming for me now!" He reached forward and clutched Estonia's shirt in tight fists, shaking him desperately.

"Wait, who's coming for you? Russia? I don't understa—."

_"THE SUNFLOWERS!"_

Estonia opened his mouth. Estonia closed his mouth. "…what?"

Eyes darting wildly, Latvia began speaking very quickly, words spilling out of him in a terrified, breathless stream of near-incoherent babble. "Some of them exploded or turned funny colors or started giggling or acted like Spain and one actually grew little butterfly wings and flew away to who knows where that'll get a laugh for sure wherever it lands I bet and this was all really weird but not too crazy (I know Russia and Belarus after all) but some of them became sentient I think and they came after me and Ukraine while we were watering them with tea because we thought it might calm them down but it just seemed to wake them up more and they chased us and I think they caught Ukraine because after a while I stopped hearing the boinging sounds and there was this horrible dry rattling sound but I didn't dare look back and though Russia doesn't know about any of this yet I'm actually less scared of what he may do to me for ruining his sunflowers than I am of these _things_ which is a realization more than a little scary in itself and what are we going to do Estonia we're all going to be turned into _mulch_!"

Silence settled between them as Latvia gasped for breath and Estonia tried to parse what the heck he had just said.

Silence that was then jumped and mugged in a back alley, beaten within an inch of its life with a crowbar, and warned never to try peacefully settling anywhere again; silence broken by what could have been the sound of rustling leaves, or the clicking of sunflower seeds, or the death-rattle of a doomed man.

The two nations slowly turned toward the door, one shaking so hard his scream came out like it went through whirring fan blades, one staring in dawning horror, only managing to shout one time-honored cry.

"LAAATVIIAAAA!"

**And that, class, is how the end of the world began. Or the development of new Russian botanical shock troops, I'm not sure. Though that may be the same thing in the end!**

**Another cameo from our good friend silence! Poor thing gets broken all the time.**

**Actual facts time! Midsummer's Day (the summer solstice) is known, among other names, as Ivan's Day in Russia. Though a coincidence, this still amused me for reasons that should be easy to see. (Frankly, I'm amazed there isn't yet an Alfred day in the U.S.) This holiday is actually the most celebrated holiday in Latvia (where it is called **_**Jāni) **_**after Christmas.**

**Hey, if anyone caught the reference to The Tick, they win something awesome. Scout's honor!  
**

~o0O0o~

CATZI'S OMAKE

**It's not quite the same idea as the one you suggested, but this version just grabbed my imagination and ran away with it!**

America was bored, and what's worse, he was bored in England's house, which had practically nothing that would distract him for long. Heck, the only reason England had even an iPod was because America sent one for him along with the Queen's. What an odd combination it was, too, with show tunes for the monarch, waltzes and punk rock for her nation.

Struck by an idea, he leapt to silent feet and padded down the hall. He peeked into the kitchen, where England was busy cursing lunch into a black, toxic mess. America would never admit it, but he sort of actually believed England's magic existed; he had actually eaten England's cuisine before, and there was no other way horrors of that magnitude could have been created without some sort of supernatural help. He knew, because _he_ had tried, and then his best _scientists_ had tried, and then _Tony_ had tried and they all ended up with something very nasty but—critically—not nasty _enough_. As some dude in a funny hat once said, once you've gotten rid of all the impossible ideas and some of the stupid ones, whatever you've got left has got to be the truth, no matter how weird.

Speaking of weird…America grinned to himself as he considered his plan. No doubt before long England would find the house suspiciously quiet and come searching for him, but for a while yet America had some free time to snoop. Using his totally boss ninja skills, America slipped away and up the ancient stairs that would have creaked was it not for those selfsame totally boss ninja skills, up and up and up until he reached the attic.

He wandered around the large room, peering and prodding at things that probably shouldn't be peered at or prodded. Even if England liked to pretend to be stuffy and boring these days, no amount of embroidery and fussiness could hide his whole past. He kept plenty of mementos around the house, old man that he was, but the attic was where he stored all the stuff he didn't want everyone to see yet wanted to keep. That also just happened to be most of the freakiest, craziest, awesome-est stuff too. For reasons beyond America the other nation didn't show this stuff off; if _he_ knew he had an actual Iron Maiden, he'd mount it in his front yard for the world to see, with spotlights and kickass heavy metal accompaniment.

His eye caught a flash of white behind an old suit of armor that America made a note to investigate further in the future, and he reached back to tug a sandwich board into the open. It was perfectly ordinary, the sort one would hang over their shoulders. But what it said wasn't perfectly ordinary at all.

He brushed dust off the surface and squinted to read the familiar, faded handwriting. "Will…_whore_…for _tea_? What…?"

"Er," said a voice from behind him, and he spun to see England, finger raised and mouth open as if interrupted in the opening salvo of a lecture. They stared at each other for a moment.

And then America burst into laughter. "AHAHAHAHA! I can _not_ believe _you_, England, _you_ have a sandwich board reading "_Will Whore For Tea_. HAHAHAHA!"

"It's- it's not mine!" he protested, flushing, eyes darting guiltily.

"Oh yes it is, this is your handwriting!" America could barely speak for laughter. "This is just so, so perfect! World War Two, right?"

"It's not mine, git! Put it back and go eat lunch!"

"Oh, no way man! Just wait 'til I show everyone!"

England glared, eyebrows furrowed dangerously. "You shall _not_ do any such thing," he growled, fists clenching.

America, brash superpower that he was, was about to do it anyway when he paused. There was something in England's eyes, something strange and wild…

"…Did you have any tea in the past few hours?" he asked cautiously.

England tapped his chin in mock thought. "Hmm, I was very busy all morning keeping an annoying Yankee from making rocket ships out of my good china, so no, I don't quite recall the last time I had a cup. But." He absent-mindedly picked up a massive greatsword leaning against the wall, hefting it thoughtfully in one hand. He watched America for a moment impassively before a cheerful smile spread across his face. "But the real question is, my dear, dear America, are you feeling _lucky_?"

America swallowed dryly, eyes unable to decide on which was the greater danger to focus on, the gleam in England's eyes or the enormous sword. For the briefest moment he felt a chill of absolute fear roll down his spine.

And then like the rising sun over the mountains, like a trickster deity reincarnate, like a brave fool about to do a brilliantly stupid thing, he grinned broadly. "Of course I do, I'm the United States of Awesome! AHAHAHAHA!" And with that he grabbed the sandwich board and ran for his life.

And as the infuriated yells of "GET BACK HERE, GIT!" followed close behind, America laughed and laughed. What could he say? He loved to live dangerously.

***gigglegigglesnort***

**The iPod: In April of 2009 the Obamas gave the Queen an iPod full of some of her favorite show tunes.**

**Iron Maiden: Though torture instruments of the Middle Ages were endlessly creative in the pursuit of pain, the Iron Maiden was actually a fiction created in the 19****th**** century. America's heavy metal musical accompaniment would be, of course, Iron Maiden.**

* * *

**I have a good deal more omake ideas for this fic - many of which suggested by my awesome reviewers - but they're at the moment either too fragmented and incomplete or nothing more than a few words, so for now I'm marking this fic as complete. In the future, perhaps I'll add another Omake Par-tea chapter, but who can tell what the future will bring? Certainly not I.**

**I'd like to thank all of my lovely reviewers, whose kindness knows no bounds (and no, Electric Plum, I still have not thought of a good name for y'all). I would thank you all individually but then we'd run out of room for all the omake! And we can't have that.**

**I'd also like to thank my dashing idea-cohorts for this piece of insani-tea: my cunning partner-in-crime, JuniperGentle; my awesome idea-bouncer, PirateTree; my fountain of delicious crack, Lilyflower1987; and my Designated Foreign Person, greygreenwolf.**

**I wish I could thank you for each of the ideas and all the encouragement you all have given me, but there's just far, far too many to list here.**

**At any rate, I have thoroughly enjoyed planning and writing this fic, and I hope you have similarly enjoyed reading it! (and if you haven't you're a strange sort of masochist indeed to keep reading despite it ^^)**

**Tea and donutburgers,**

**~Punmaster Extraordinaire**


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